


say my name and every color illuminates

by GlitterPoisonedMyBlood



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Badass Arya, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Dragon dreams, Dragons, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fem!Jon, Female Jon, Female Jon Snow, I think?, Impregnation, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Porn With Plot, Pregnancy, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Rule 63, Threesome - F/F/M, baby targlings, the dragon has three heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-08 23:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 47,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterPoisonedMyBlood/pseuds/GlitterPoisonedMyBlood
Summary: Lyarra Snow has no prospects until she finds a box under Ned Stark's favorite heart tree.ORThe one in which three dragons fall in love.





	1. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey All! I know I just finished another ASoIF fic but this one needed to be written too! I've never written a triad story, and this will be my first! I also don't often write smut stories, but I wanted to practice a little so I added some here? I also wanted to try my hand at fem!jon. I'm nervous, haha.

This story was inspired by all the amazing fem!jon stories out there, specifically the ones below. Check them out!

[Visenya](https://archiveofourown.org/series/544021) by [TheEagleGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl)

[Lost Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759594/chapters/29108928) by [prussianblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussianblues/pseuds/prussianblues)

[the wolf within](https://archiveofourown.org/series/878418) by [tzar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzar/pseuds/tzar)

* * *

 

All she’s ever wanted was to be a true Stark. She’s five and ten and she’s never had a mother. Since the day her father brought her back, she has been the single stain on Lord Eddard Stark’s honor. His famed honor, so well-known that Lyarra Snow’s existence is known to many of the noble houses of the realm.

She’s a bastard, born in Dorne and raised at Winterfell by her Lord father with all of her brothers and sisters. Yes, she has a father, brothers, and sisters but she has no mother, not in Catelyn Stark. _Especially_ not in Catelyn Stark.

Lyarra knows how cruel Lady Stark is. She’s quiet in her fury but sharp in her words and she is colder than the winds of winter could ever be. She is no Northern woman who could pierce the heart with fear, but Lyarra quivers under her gaze because all she can see is a woman who wishes she was dead. And the worst part about that, is that her younger sister, Sansa, agrees.

When they were young Sansa loved Lyarra, loved her big sister who was always there to hug and kiss her; to teach her everything she knew. But now she turns away when she sees Lyarra, calls her half-sister and bastard – and those are the kinder words that Sansa has to offer Lyarra. It hurts Lyarra but she pretends she does not feel the ice in her heart. She is of the North and loves Winterfell and the Starks, even if neither Winterfell or the Starks have no love for her.

So she turns to the sword at the tender age of seven. She begs Robb to let her pretend to be a Knight during their games which had only confused him, because wasn’t she supposed to want to play the princess who needed to be rescued from the tower? Then she tugged hard on Ser Rodrick’s arms and asks to learn the blade from the master at arms.

Ser Rodrick gives her a queer look, asking why she would need to know the sword and Lyarra hastily replied that she wanted to know how to protect herself and her siblings. Ser Rodrick is even more confused at that, pointing out that there is nothing she needed to protect her siblings from.

But Lyarra knows better. She knows that there is great evil here, has seen it in her dreams. So she bluntly tells Ser Rodrick that sometimes men hurt women and that finally convinces him to reluctantly teach her the basics with a sword.

They practice easy maneuvers for six turns before her Lord father catches them, and Ser Rodrick hastily apologizes on his knees, and promises to teach her no more. Lyarra just cries because she’s doing so well, is learning so much. Then her Lord Father stops her tears.

“For what reason do you desire to learn the blade?” how wonders.

She gives him the same reason she told Ser Rodrick and she notices a shadow pass over her father’s face. _He will deny me_ she thinks, because why would a woman learn the blade? To her surprise, her father agrees that she will train with Robb and Theon. The next day when the two boys are training, they are surprised to see there is an addition to their lessons.

She only bests Robb half of the time, and Theon a quarter, but she swears she could win more if Lady Catelyn didn’t punish her for winning against the boys.

And then Arya grows up a little more, and just like Lyarra she shows interest in the blade. She wants to be a Knight, she tells Lyarra, wants true honor and glory. After months of Arya’s pestering, she and Arya start to practice in secret together in the godswood where no one could see them.

But Lady Catelyn does somehow find out, and Lyarra is truly afraid of the ice in Lady Catelyn’s eyes for the first time. Aye, during her life she had been anxious about being anywhere near Lady Catelyn, but this was _true_ fear. All Lady Catelyn cares about is etiquette and her children, and she is already angry that Arya refuses to end her friendship with Lyarra.

Lady Catelyn shouts at her loudly, and in front of many people, just to shame her.

“We feed you! We clothe you! And you stop my true daughter from being a lady!”

Arya is weeping now, because although she’s been scolded before she’s never heard her lady mother raise her voice at her eldest sister. But she gets a determined look in her eye, and starts shouting back.

Lyarra curses in her head, because she knows that Catelyn will blame the disrespect on her as well. Lady Catelyn sends Arya back to her room, and Lyarra tries to slip away with her. Unfortunately, Lady Catelyn catches her, reprimands her again, and then finally slapped her across her face to stop Lyarra from giving excuses. The courtyard is silent. There isn’t a breath. Lady Catelyn has struck her husband’s bastard. But Lyarra thinks perhaps it feels good to Lady Catelyn because she raises her hand again and moves to slap her once more when her ord father is suddenly behind Lady Catelyn.

“What are you doing, Cat?” he demands in the quietest voice Lyarra has ever heard. She wonders if this is the time to sneak away, if perhaps an argument between the two will stop them from noticing she is gone. But if her lord father is upset as well, will she be turned out into the snow? Will she starve on the road in the cold? But she scampers away as her father leads Lady Catelyn away.

The next day, Lady Catelyn gives her cold glares even frostier than before, and Lyarra gets half of the already meager serving she always gets for meals.

Lyarra’s hunger makes her dream of dragons when she sleeps that night. She dreams of dragons most nights, but it is different this time. She is riding the dragon, a great white and gold beast, and when she looks to her left she sees a man – the boy she has seen her whole life – on a green dragon. Their eyes meet and she turns to her right and-

She’s shaken awake before she can see who is on her right. Arya is looking at her strangely.

“You’re late,” she says, “We were supposed to practice together half an hour ago.”

“We can’t anymore, Arya,” Lyarra says as she sits up, “Your mother would skin me alive.”

Arya is unhappy about the prospect of no longer having her sword lessons with Lyarra, but rushes away to hide when she hears Septa Mordane angrily calling her name.

Lyarra dreams of the boy every night that week. She sees his eyes, a pale lavender, with flecks. His skin holds the lightest of tans, and his silver-gold hair is tied back in a knot, the way her father sometimes wears his hair.

It feels like he’s looking straight at her, looking this is no dream and truly she is standing beside a man who is just as present as she is.

“Vise-”

She wakes.

* * *

 

Lady Catelyn is particularly cruel when Winterfell receives notice that the King is journeying North. Her father has been giving her lingering looks as though he is trying to understand something. Lady Catelyn is more than unhappy about her father giving her attention, but she’s even more enraged because she has no desire for the King to see her humiliated, with a bastard under her roof.

Lady Catelyn is vicious leading up to the King’s arrival. She sends Lyarra to bed without supper _thrice_ for no reason at all, and the only way that Lyarra can seek comfort is by hiding under the leaves of a weirwood tree. Lady Catelyn never goes to the godswood, and she doesn’t want Lyarra around anyway, so she hides for hours at a time. While she lies under the heart tree, she wonders what it would be like to be free, what her future would be like if she was trueborn like Sansa. Sansa will marry a lord, with a castle, and have many beautiful redhaired children. And Lyarra knows that will not be her future. She has heard the low conversations that her father has with her uncle Benjen. He has not a single prospect for a match for Lyarra. No one will wed a bastard, Lyarra knows, and Lyarra cannot stay in the house of Lady Catelyn forever, or she may freeze under the woman’s cold stares. She’s gotten used to the hunger, and it no longer hurts when she is denied dinner. But gods forbid her father dies, Lady Catelyn will sell her to a Winter Town brothel without a second thought, and Lyarra knows this for sure.

It doesn’t matter either way, Lyarra realizes, because when she sees a patch of freshly moved dirt near her father’s favorite heart tree her attention is caught. There’s grass over it, but it looks different than the greenery around it and Lyarra knows that there is _something_ there. Something is calling her name, as though there is something she must know, something that would change her life.

She rubs the cut grass away and the dirt is beneath her fingers and she wonders if digging near a heart tree will anger the gods. _Does it matter?_ she thinks, _Haven’t the gods forsaken me anyway? Did they ever care about me at all?_

But gods! When she finally sees what is there, under her father’s favorite weirdwood, she doesn’t know who she is anymore. She doesn’t want to accept what she’s found, what it means, because it means she’s been living a lie. Because there’s a box under the heart tree where her fath-uncle goes to console himself. Lyarra is terrified because it’s memories of her aun-mother.

Lyanna Stark eloped with Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and became his second wife in addition to Princess Elia Martell.

Her mother is a princess. _She_ is a princess.

Her true name is Visenya Targaryen and she’s the only living child of Rhaegar Targaryen. She knows what happened to Aegon and Rhaenys, had heard the story from her fath-uncle. Everything she thought she knew is a lie, and Lyarra doesn’t know how to feel. Is it a surprise? Had she known? Does she even believe this to be true? And what does it change if it is? King Robert will kill her, and her father, and Arya and all of her siblings if he knew the secret Ned Stark has kept.

But she’s dreamed of dragons her entire life, envisioned a boy with silver blond hair on a boat. Maester Luwin said she had an imagination but maybe she had been dreaming of her family. Maybe they wanted her as much as she wanted them. Maybe the boy is Viserys Targaryen, who along with his sister had escaped across the Narrow Sea. They are in exile, if they are still alive. Her other family, across the Narrow Sea could be the family she was always meant to have. But they could be dead or starving. Maybe the Targaryens are cursed to die or to live in misery. She’s keenly aware that many of her ancestors have married their sisters, and though it disturbs her, she thinks perhaps misery is the penance for the incestuous sins of her ancestors.

But the Starks - they’re supposed to be her family. They’re supposed to-. Lyarra chokes on a sob and then hears a twig snap and of course its Arya. Her favorite sist- cousin.

And Arya is hugging her and reading with her and she has _someone_. Someone who loves her. Someone who cares about her, no matter _what_ her name is.

“But I can’t stay here,” says Lyarra shakily as she wipes the tears from her eyes, “I need to leave. There is nothing for me here. If anyone ever finds out-”

Arya is tearing up as she clutches Lyarra’s furs but she nods because she understands and that night when the wolves are howling, Lyarra gathers together the few possessions she has, the box of letters and Ghost. Arya helps her shove it all into a rucksack and hands her a bag of coins that she’d kept in her sock.

“Where’d you even-” Lyarra begins but Arya just shoves it into Lyarra’s hands.

“Robb gives me a silver every time I shoot better than Bran.”

Lyarra chokes on a laugh because that’s just like Robb and even more like Arya. Lyarra doesn’t want to take the silver and gold from her little sister but she hasn’t a clue how much passage to Pentos will cost her.

“Your aunt and uncle are there,” Arya says, “I heard it so when I was sneaking last night.”

“You’ve got to quit doing that,” Lyarra says reasonably as she hugs her sister tightly. Her violet eyes are tearing up and Arya is starting to sniffle too and they hug each other so tightly that for a moment Lyarra thinks she shouldn’t leave.

But she kisses her sister goodbye, presses a note for her father into Arya’s hand, steals her horse and she and Ghost are on the road towards White Harbor.

* * *

 

Arya is surprised it takes three whole days for anyone but her to notice that Lyarra is missing. She had left on the last day of sword practice for the week, and two days of rest passed. It wasn’t until Lyarra neglected to turn up for their practice that Robb and Theon realized that they hadn’t seen Lyarra.

“Is she ill?” Robb questions Arya, who is not a very good liar.

She just shrugs her shoulders, trying to be truthful, “I don’t know.”

“I had no sight of her at supper last night,” Theon points out and Arya wants to kick him in the shin.

“Maybe she has a bad belly,” Arya tries.

Robb looks thoughtful, “Should we check on her?”

Arya panics, “I will do it! I’ll bring bread and soup.”

Robb smiles and pats her head, “You are a good sister, Arya. Let father know she’s ill. She could need a maester.”

Arya nods and darts off to the kitchen. She hides with the bowl of soup and the bread and eats it all even though it hurts her stomach since she’s already broken her fast. But she has to cover up Lyarra’s disappearance, and keeping anyone out of Lyarra’s chamber is important. It’s drafty in there, and there are little furnishings. Lyarra took what she had, and Arya again looks at the note that she had hidden in her pocket until the time was right to hand it over to her father.

The next morning, there’s a sharp knock on her chamber door and both Robb and her father are looking at her stonily.

“Arya, please explain,” Robb says, “Why when I mentioned to father this morning that Lyarra was not well he had no understanding of what I was saying.”

Arya gulps and puts her hands behind her back, and she can see Rickon, Bran, and Sansa peeking from down the hall

“Where is Lyarra?” her father asks calmly, “Your siblings haven’t seen her, and neither have I.”

Arya stammers because she doesn’t know what to answer. Is Lyarra far enough away that she can escape without her father’s bannermen tracking her? “I-I-”

Then her mother appears and looks at her knowingly, “Did she leave, Arya? Perhaps with a _man_?”

Her father whips his head to look at his mother, and she has never seen him so angry. Robb just looks horrified, as though he is contemplating that his sister has run away with a stable hand.

“Tell me, Arya,” her father says, his voice becoming louder, “The servants say she has not left her room, and yet Robb says you brought her breakfast and supper yesterday. Where is she?”

Arya swallows thickly, knowing she has to give an answer, “She left!” she finally blurts and then slaps a hand over her mouth. She’s betrayed her favorite sist-cousin’s trust! There is no honor in that!

“Where?” her father booms, “When? Why!”

Arya shuffles and then reaches into her pocket and hands a tiny roll of ripped parchment to her father. He takes it and unrolls it and Arya can see the emotions move across his face until he backs into the stone wall and slides to the ground.

“What does it say?” Robb asks urgently, trying to take the note that Ned grasps tighter and stuffs into his pocket.

“Send for Maester Luwin. We need to send ravens to stop her.”

“Stop her from what?” Robb questions, “I don’t understand-”

“She ran away!” Ned roars, and then turns to his children’s mother, “You will pay for this, Cat. You’ve driven my blood from the only place she is safe. You’ve made me break my promise to her mother-” before he can continue he turns around and storms away.

Arya has never seen her father so angry and then Robb turns and looks at her.

“Where did she go? What does the letter say? You know something, Arya. Lyarra could be in danger. She’s our sister.”

“She’s our _half_ -sister,” Arya hears Sansa say from a few feet away and Arya flies at her to rip her stupid red hair out.

Lady Catelyn breaks them apart and scolds them, and Robb is rushing towards the rookery.

 _I hope I stalled them enough_ , Arya thinks as the Septa makes her sit in the corner as punishment, _I hope you’re safe, Lya._

Across Winterfel, her father is at his desk, tears in his eyes, “I failed you, Lya,” he says, “What have I done?”

* * *

 

She gets on a boat that’s supposed to be going to Pentos but ultimately ends up in Lys. She has dreams the whole ride to White Harbor that haunt her, that whisper that Lys is where she should be. But she’s afraid she may be found by her fath-uncle’s bannermen before she can leave White Harbor. She’s been gone for an fortnight, and the Starks must know she is gone by now. The next ship to Lys is over an entire turn away, long enough for the Manderly to send a rider to Winterfell to warn her family of her presence. If she waits, she will be forced back to Winterfell. So she boards the ship to Pentos, even though something tells her it’s not where she should be.

In the end, it’s only a minor setback. But if she wants to survive in this new place she needs to conserve her coins where she can. When she arrives in Pentos she waits for a reasonably priced ship to Volantis and offers to do laundry and upkeep on the ship in exchange for board and meals. The head matron looks unimpressed by her skinny ankles but finally strikes a deal with Lyarra. She hides Ghost in her bag, and buys a stock of dried meat at the market to feed him for the two turn trip to Lys. They make several stops along the way, first in Myr, then in Tyrosh and several islands in the Step Stones. Their ship goes off course _twice_ , and by the time they see land, Lyarra realizes she’s been gone from Winterfell for five turns.

When she arrives in Lys, Lyarra wants to kiss the solid ground because ships are _awful_. It’s unreasonably hot here, and Lyarra only has three gowns that are light enough for the stifling heat.

She’s terrified. What had she been thinking? Thinking she could make a life for herself in Lys, alone? Her Valyrian is _terrible_ and she’s already been propositioned by over a dozen drunken sailors thinking she is a pleasure slave who are only deterred by her drawing her sword. She knows barely enough to communicate, and her accent is so strong that anytime she speaks she knows that everyone can tell she’s from the Seven Kingdoms.

She’s been sleeping in a virgin’s house, because it’s the only place that will take an unmarried maiden, and she’s been trying to get work as a governess. She has enough knowledge of geography, history, numbers, and sewing after being taught by Maester Luwin and (sort of) Septa Mordane that she could be a helpful governess. But each time she meets with a family, they do not hire her. She thinks it is because her Valyrian is awful, but then after learning a few new words from the women she boards with, she realizes that the ladies that have met her are turning away in fear she may seduce their husbands.

She thinks maybe she should not have come. Maybe her dreams steered her wrong. Maybe there is no family for her here. And even if there were, maybe they wouldn’t want her anyway. Maybe they won’t love her. Maybe they will hate her, just like everyone else seems to do. She’s nearing six and ten and the only person who she knows cares for her is Arya. She breaks down and cries as she leaves the eighth manse she had visited looking for work. Will she have to go back to the North? Will Lady Catelyn have her beaten if she returns and they find out she was hiding in Lys?

She had only started with five gold dragons, had sold her horse for a gold dragon in White Harbor, and had paid ten silver moons for passage to Pentos. She had managed to conserve the coins she had until she got to Lys. But she paid the equivalent of a silver stag each night to stay at the virgin’s house, with meals included. It wasn’t a terrible price, and it would take her half a year to use another gold dragon but she had to feed Ghost (who the matron forced her to pay another silver stag a week to keep) and though she had brought her lightest gowns from Winterfell, she needed fabric to make cooler gowns for the oppressive Lyseni heat. Lyarra wonders how many beggar Princesses there may be in Essos, knowing she may soon be one of them.

She’s thinking about this while choosing fabric to stich herself a gown. The other girls in the matron’s house have recommended this old crone who sells for less to unmarried women but the prices still make Lyarra cringe. There are three bolts of fabric that entice her, one white and gold, another red and violet, and the final a natural warm beige. She thinks if she buys all three she could make two dresses from each of the first two bolts, and then small things and sleeping gowns from the last. It will cost her almost twelve silver stags, which makes her cringe. She’s thinking about whether anyone will know if she forgoes small things to buy a smaller bolt of the last fabric when she meets _him_. She’s not even doing anything special, just buying fabric to sew some dresses more suitable for the intense heat and she nearly drops the bolt of fabric she’s examining because it’s happening now

Because they meet eyes and she can’t believe – they have the same eyes. His hair is dyed, blue like the Tyroshi do but as her eyes flutter and she breathes in sharply, she recognizes him. Because _she_ has that nose, and those eyes, and that same chin. This must be Viserys Targaryen. It could only be. She opens her mouth, wants to get his attention but he’s already walking straight towards her and his eyes are saying something even though his mouth has not moved.

This is the man from her dreams, that she had dreamed of for her whole life.

 _He’s real_.

He’s walking with such purpose that Lyarra thinks, maybe he recognizes her too. Maybe he had also had the dreams. And when he smiles at her as he gets closer Lyarra can feel the tears begin to pool in her eyes because it’s so foreign to feel wanted by someone, anyone, besides Arya.

He puts his hand to her cheek and he doesn’t say a word as he buys all three bolts of fabric plus two more that she had been eyeing earlier but had ruled out because they were too expensive and then leads her away from the market.

“Hello, Visenya,” he says as he helps her onto his horse, “I am your brother, Aegon Targaryen.”

* * *

 

Her brother Aegon has an entire party of men and women protecting him. Jon Connington, long thought to be dead, is posing as his father and a woman with dark violet eyes is teaching Aegon about the Seven. She’s pretty, far too pretty to be a Septa but Lyarra ignores the odd feeling she gets when she looks at Septa Lemore because she is so kind to Lyarra.

Aegon is overjoyed that she’s with them, “Finally!” he keeps saying, as though he had known she was coming, knew exactly where she would be so that they could finally meet. Perhaps he did know. Perhaps he had had the same dreams that lead her to Essos.

But now, she has a living brother and she doesn’t care if he has the same dreams. She just cares that she has someone. She does ask him about it eventually, our of curiosity, and finally he gives her a warm smile and tells her that the visions are deep in him.

“You see the future?” Lyarra asks uncertainly.

“Is it so unbelievable?” Aegon parries as they stop for cold fruit under the hot Lyseni sun.

Lyarra thinks about the dreams she had had on her way to White Harbor that had made her decide to come to Lys even though it was the furthest she could get from the North. Finally she shakes her head and Aegon takes a long drink from his wineskin before offering it to her.

It’s a Dornish red and her eyes water as she swallows a gulp and hands it back. Aegon just laughs and then hands her another tiny peach.

“I dream of the things I am meant to know,” Aegon finally says as he leans back on the stone wall they sit upon, “I dreamt of you, of our family. Of dragons.”

“That’s why you believed me about my mother and father before I showed you the letters and the marriage paper,” Lyarra pieces together, “You already knew.”

“Just so,” Aegon says, “So does Septa Lemore. You may know her as Ashara Dayne.”

Lyarra turns gobsmacked. When she was young she had heard whispers across the castle that Lady Ashara Dayne was her mother, but then one day it went completely silent and Ashara Dayne was never mentioned again, “That’s Ash- how did-”

“When your uncle took you from Dorne, Lady Ashara was with mother Lyanna. He rode North with you, and Lady Ashara rode for Sunspear to take a ship to me and Jon. She tells me they wanted us to be separated for our safety.”

“That’s why everyone thought she was my mother,” Lyarra realizes, “They must have come up with the cover story together. But, Lady Catelyn said she threw herself from a tower after the Sword of Morning was killed.”

“False,” Aegon says pleasantly, “Ser Arthur is alive and well, and so is Ser Gerold. You’ve met them. They three sailed together.”

Lyarra can hardly take all the news she is given, “So Ser Thurus and Ser Goldwyn-”

Aegon nods, “Just so,” the he adds in a pleasant voice, “I’ve been telling them you were coming for years and they did not believe me. They knew you existed of course, they were there, at the Tower of Joy, when you were born. But they did not think you would ever leave the North.”

“Would they tell me about my mother?” Lyarra asks with a hopeful breath.

“I can,” Aegon replies, “I’ve dreamt of them all. They married in the Northern style, sister, under a heart tree in the Isle of Faces. I saw my mother, who was as eager to wed Lyanna as father was, and Rhaenys was there.” Aegon snorts, “She was _so_ excited about having _two_ mothers instead of one. She thought uncle Viserys would be jealous.”

She shakily asks about Rhaenys, hoping maybe her older sister has been travelling, that she made it out of King’s Landing just as Aegon did. But Aegon gets a sad look on his face before shaking his head and although Rhaenys had been dead by the time Lyarra was born she still hurts inside. Because she thinks it would be like losing Arya, Robb, Bran, or Rickon. Even the thought of losing Sansa hurts and the two hadn’t been close for almost six years.

“Shouldn’t we join our aunt and uncle?” Lyarra questions as the two explore Lys.

“We cannot,” Aegon says as he tucks one of her raven curls behind her ear, “One Targaryen can hide, and so may two. But four would raise the attention of the Usurper.” Aegon hesitates but continues, “And uncle Viserys is… very similar to our grandfather.”

Lyarra’s heart freezes because she knows, she understands what that means. It’s the thing she is terrified of the most. She is afraid of the madness of her father’s family more than anything else.

“He is too brash, and always catches the attention of the Usurper. He and aunt Daenerys constantly move because uncle Viserys refuses to hide our distinct looks.”

He smooths his hands on Lyarra’s hair and kisses her gently on the forehead, “You look more like mother Lyanna than father but for your eyes. They’re beautiful,” he whispers into her ear, “You are beautiful.”

It makes her blush when he says that, and Aegon’s smile is wider and gods this is wrong. She can’t see her brother that way. She had never blushed when Robb complimented her the way her face heated now under Aegon’s attention.

It’s _wrong_. But it feels so _right_.

* * *

 

Aegon is as talented at the harp as Rhaegar was said to have been, and though Lady Catelyn had done her best to stop Lyarra from learning any of the important things a lady should learn, her own skills with the harp have always been unparalleled. Septa Lemore helps her refine her skills, and is teaching her everything from the Faith of the Seven to High Valyrian and the history of her family. It’s odd, Lyarra thinks, to learn from a Septa, when Septa Mordane refused to even be in her presence for more than absolutely necessary. But Septa Lemore is different; kind. Probably because she’s no Septa at all.

And throughout every day, Lyarra thinks Aegon might be romancing her. He is painfully sweet to her, so much so that it terrifies Lyarra. Because even though she isn’t a bastard anymore, she’s been one for so long she doesn’t know anything else. And how could _she_ deserve his soft hands and his gentle kisses? Those things are reserved for ladies that wear silken gowns and marry lords in high castles. And she is _no_ lady. Lady Catelyn and Sansa made sure she knew that.

She can’t tell Aegon that she’s a _fraud_. What will he think? He may throw her on the street, she thinks. Somewhere in her head she knows that would never happen, but the fear is there all the same. He smiled so sweetly at her, seemed to love her so dearly and yet Lyarra doesn’t know if she will ever feel secure in her place beside him. It’s nothing of Aegon’s doing. It’s her own insecurities, her own self loathing. She’s holding herself back now, in place of Lady Catelyn because she doesn’t know what it’s like to be happy.

How could he want _her_? He could have anyone. He was a prince, albeit in exile, with wild lavender eyes and shining silver-gold hair. He was courageous, and well learned, and kind. He was _perfect_. And what was she? Some ugly little street urchin who hadn’t been important enough to smuggle out of Westeros. And who her fath-uncle had raised as bastard. She could sew a gown, but couldn’t embroider, knew how to read and write but had no knowledge of poetry. Lady Catelyn had never taught _her_ to be a Lady. Not like Sansa.

And one day she drinks a little too much, has two cups of Dornish wine instead of one and her tongue is too loose. So she cries and cries and her wailing in her room brings Aegon because the Myrish guard at her door is worried something may have happened to the Princess.

Aegon knocks but when he receives no answer he storms the room only to see her drunkenly crying as she cuddles with Ghost. It spills out of her, the abuse from Lady Catelyn, hating herself for not being good enough. He knows everything now.

She tells him how she and Sansa had been so close, until Sansa had questioned why Lyarra did not take lessons with Septa Mordane and Lady Catelyn had replied that it was because Lyarra was not her daughter. And things had been awful after that. Sansa shunned her, and Robb tried to comfort her but he was a _boy_ and had no interest in playing with dolls. All he ever wanted to do was play knights with Theon and Bran and they _always_ made her sit alone somewhere to wait to be rescued. So she had retreated into herself until Arya had gotten old enough for the two to conspire. Their father said the wolf blood was strong in Arya and Lyarra could see it, felt the wolf blood herself.

She tells him how Lady Catelyn had clothed her only because she forced to, and made sure to never get her new fabrics, never new dresses, never new anything at all. All of her dresses had been made from fabrics that Catelyn didn’t like enough to use for herself, and Lyarra’s dresses were always made once Sansa had her pick of fabrics. How Lady Catlyn had convinced the servants not to give her enough food, and how Maester Luwin told her that it had stopped her moonsblood from coming until only a year prior. How the lady of the house had turned Wylla out, Lyarra’s nurse and her only mother figure besides Old Nan.

She tells him how the thing that hurt the most was that through all of his honor her father had never stopped the abuse, had never forced Lady Catelyn to love her like she loved her own children. He had chosen to honor Lyanna by taking Lyarra in, but he had still been loyal to Robert. Hadn’t he still chosen his friend over her?

“She didn’t even have to hate me,” Lyarra cries out through drunken tears, “If he had just told her, she would have understood! She-”

She’s choking on her tears, choking on her sadness. Maybe she’s giving Lady Catelyn too much credit but right now it’s not her that Lyarra is angry at. It’s Ned; it’s Robert; it’s the whole Known World.

But it’s a step forward in their relationship because her trauma is on the table, laid bare between them. Now he knows _exactly_ what she is, exactly how worthless she feels and why his love scares her.

Aegon doesn’t try to fix her, doesn't try to stitch the broken pieces of her back together. He just holds her until her tears are exhausted and her eyelids are so heavy that she can’t stay awake any longer. But she mumbles for him to stay, and to her surprise, he does.

He’s even there when she wakes.

* * *

 

Her fath-uncle Ned has safely escaped murder by the hands of the Lannisters, but Robb has been declared King in the North, and he is marching to destroy the Lannisters.

Aegon wants to cheer at this development, “They will fight amongst themselves,” he says as he steeples his fingers together over a cup of wine, “And then we will conquer the Kingdoms as they scramble to stop us. It’s perfect.”

Lyarra is horrified because, “Robb could die! Fath-Uncle Ned could die! Arya! Sansa-”

Aegon puts his hand to her cheek thoughtfully, “Sweet sister, I did not mean to upset you. Your mother’s family is safe. Robb has gone to war, yes, but he’s married the Tyrell girl to gain their allegiance. He has half of the armies in the Seven Kingdoms as both of the Usurper’s brothers are defeated. It is true that Sansa is held captive in King’s Landing but the Starks hold the Kingslayer as a hostage, so she is safe,” Aegon continues, “No harm will come to your family, my love.”

Lyarra wants to cry, even still, because he _can’t_ promise that. Robb is going to war, and Bran is crippled, fallen from a tower at Winterfell only weeks after she fled. Arya is missing. Her sibl-cousins are dropping like flies.

He holds her tightly as she sniffles quietly because he _knows_. He knows how hard relationships are for her, knows how much she loves her cousins. All Lyarra has ever wanted was a family that loved her without question. Lady Catelyn had been cruel, and so had Sansa. Robb had taken care of her the way an older brother did, and she and Arya were thick as thieves. Bran looked up to his sister, and Lyarra was the only one who could stop Rickon from crying when he fell and got scrapes and bruises.

But her fathe-Ned, had taken care of her, taken her in. She knew it was a sense of duty, and honor. And she knew that in some way, he did love her. But she had never called her his daughter. She was his blood, he would say, and now that she knew exactly what that meant it killed her inside. Because she loved him like a father and though she thought he returned that love he never said it.

But here is Aegon, who is always saying it. He says it so often that Lyarra can’t believe that he’s able to do it. He tells her he loves her _constantly_.

At first it seems platonic. He loves her as a brother loves a sister. But Targaryens do not love their sisters as sisters. They are _always_ something more. Slowly, gradually, quietly, the _I love yous_ become something new, something different. He says it reverently, quietly, with this look in his eye. It’s a glint, and it is more possessive than the dragon itself. He holds her tighter, keeps her closer and there is nothing platonic about the way he says _I love you_.

He _smolders_ when he says it, and he doesn’t seem to care that everyone knows that he loves his sister as a man loves a woman. He tells her so as he leans closer to her as they explore the markets. “We are family,” he says, “Why should you not love your family?”

Kissing him is not like she thinks it would feel to kiss Robb. The idea of kissing Robb makes her want to gag, even though he is a handsome man by all standards. Aegon is Aegon, all angles and strong limbs. The way his lips move over hers, and move over her skin awakens the fire in her.

“Lyarra,” he whispers, “Visenya,” he continues, “I care not your name, I care not your blood. It is _you_ I love.”

And his lips are trailing down her neck, and he’s feeling her through the sheer chiffon fabric of her gown.

Maybe it’s wrong, she thinks. They are _siblings_. She should be disgusted, she should be horrified that her brother feels this way. But she can’t. She just doesn’t care. Because she feels this way too.

And as his fingers trail across her skin and press under her smallclothes, she swears nothing has felt so right.

* * *

It’s her nameday. She’s now seven and ten and she’s been with Aegon for almost two years.

Aegon wants to throw an extravagant celebration for her, but knowing it would catch too much attention, he instead showers her with affection. He gives her piles of gifts, and they dance around the manse without music. He kisses her all day. They lie in the warmth, lips dancing, fingers smoothing.

But the best gift comes a turn after. It’s oddly quiet in their home until Aegon returns on a horse with a small boy clinging to his back. As he gets closer, Lyarra realizes it is no boy. It’s Arya. She leaps with joy, scrambling from the manse and running to meet them and she’s so excited to see her little sister that when the girl jumps from the horse Lyarra goes straight in to hug her, ignoring Aegon completely.

He isn’t offended though, because he knows how much Arya means to his sister.

“Are you happy, sweet sister?” Aegon asks as Arya refuses to remove her arms from around Lyarra’s middle.

Lyarra is tearing up because happy does not begin to describe how she feels. It’s _so_ much more than just ‘happy’. She is elated. She throws her arms around Aegon and in a shocking act of courage she kisses him so hard that Aegon stumbles back slightly. It’s not their first kiss, obviously, but it’s the first time she’s initiated any of their intimacy. She usually lets Aegon take the lead, and he stops when she becomes uncomfortable, or it becomes too much. But right now he’s kissing her back, truly, deeply, and Lyarra thinks perhaps _this_ is what it feels like to have a family. To have Aegon; to have Arya.

She can feel Arya holding her tighter and the wrinkle of her nose, but also the smile on her face. That night she and Arya fall into slumber together, and Lyarra doesn’t question why Arya sleeps with a dagger.

* * *

Aegon is away sometimes, training with Jon. And he’s been away for two months before he returns to their home with a smirk that’s so wide that it almost terrifies Lyarra.

He tells her he’s secured the strength of the entire force of the Golden Company, and that he has finally gotten in contact with Daenerys who is leaving Vaes Dorthrak with a horde of Dorthraki, an army of unsullied and the Second Sons.

“The dragons and our combined forces are enough to take back the Iron Throne. Uncle Doran is sending forces from Sunspear, and the loyal vassals in the crownlands are preparing for our arrival. We leave for Myr on the morrow. Our aunt will join us there.”

Lyarra pauses, “What of my br- Robb?”

Aegon notices the slip but doesn’t make a deal out of it, “Your uncle Ned has taken back Winterfell from the Ironborn and crushed the Freys. Robb is preparing to march towards King’s Landing to meet your uncle at King’s Landing from two directions, from what Varys has told us. Which is why we must move with haste.”

“Please,” Lyarra whispers, “Don’t hurt them, please. They’re my family.”

“ _I_ am your family,” Aegon says and Lyarra swears he is a true dragon in that minute because she can feel the heat radiating from him, “ _I_ am your family,” he repeats, more calmly this time.

“Yes,” Lyarra says, “Yes, of course. But I lived with them and – please. If you just let me talk to them I swear they will be loyal. Starks are honorable.”

Aegon pauses because although he has no hate for his second mother Lyanna, letting go of the anger against the Starks is difficult. But from Varys he had learned that Ned was one of the few who did not support the murder of his sister, or of his aunt.

“If they bend the knee I will let them stay in Winterfell. But hear this, sister, we will have _all_ Seven Kingdoms. Not six.”

Sometimes Lyarra wonders if perhaps Aegon doesn’t care for her family. He would be warranted to mislike them for their part in the rebellion, but Lyarra thinks that his dislike may stem from something else. She had noticed early on that whenever she spoke of Robb, Aegon became distant, cold, almost jealous. Against her better judgment she asks Arya about it and her response is both helpful and unhelpful.

“That’s stupid,” Arya says, “Robb’s our oldest brother. Why should Egg be jealous of him? Old Nan says Robb used to eat mud pies. He’s an oaf.”

Lyarra laughs at this sense of twelve year old logic but also comes to the realization that a sister is not a sister to a Targaryen. Mayhaps Aegon thought she had felt for Robb as she felt for him.

It takes her days to work up the courage to ask.

Aegon looks at her, “Do you?” he questions and Lyarra frantically shakes her head in the negative.

“No! That’s- I can’t even imagine how disgusting that would be. He’s my-”

“Brother,” Aegon finishes, slightly bitterly, “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”

Lyarra feels embarrassed for her slip because she knows exactly how it may have sounded but she can’t elaborate because Aegon continues, “But I _am_ your brother and you allow me to touch you as a man touches a woman. As a brother touches a sister in our family.”

“It’s different,” Lyarra says cautiously, “I grew up with Robb.”

“If things had been the way they should have been, you would have grown up with me and Rhaenys. And our father and our mothers. He would have wed all three of us.”

“But that is the Targaryen way,” Lyarra reasons.

“ _Our_ way,” Aegon stresses, “You are a Targaryen. You have been a wolf for many years, sweet sister. But you are also a dragon. _Be_ a dragon. You must embrace our blood or you will never have a complete life.” With that he leaves and Lyarra is left alone in her thoughts of Robb, Aegon, and dragons.

It takes three days for the pair to fix the sudden rift in their relationship. Aegon is giving Lyarra space to make up her mind, to come to terms with the fact that things have irrevocably changed for her.

She comes to him late at night and they stare at each other under the moonlight.

“It’s hard,” Lyarra admits, “Because you and Daenerys are the only family I have left. I’ve never met her, and though we’ve been here together for two years we know next to nothing about each other.”

“I know the important things,” Aegon argues, “I know your childhood, I know what makes you sad, what makes you happy. We know the things that matter. We can learn the rest on the way.”

“To what?” she questions, “To the Iron Throne? To Westeros?”

“To our life together,” Aegon says simply, “You are clever, my winter dragon. You know I would see us wed.”

She _does_ know. Because he’s kissed her, and touched her, and worshipped her but left her a maiden. But she says nothing.

“Would you not see us wed?” Aegon questions and Lyarra thinks it is the least confident she has ever seen him. He seems afraid of the question he has asked, seems afraid she would deny him.

“I would like nothing more than to wed you, Egg,” she says finally as she stands and sits in his lap, “But I am afraid that I am not enough for you.”

“You are the blood of my blood,” Aegon says as he brushes his lips to her cheek and neck, “You are more than enough for me. You are my family.”

* * *

Daenerys and her dragons arrive seven nights later and Lyarra cannot help but give a shudder when her eyes meet the eyes of a cream and gold dragon.

“This is Visērion,” Daenerys says noticing Lyarra’s fixation on the docile dragon, “He is named for my brother, Viserys.”

Just like Ghost, Lyarra can feel this beast, she _is_ this beast and as she hugs Visērion’s neck she turns to her aunt and informs her that Visērion says she is a _girl_. Daenerys looks surprised, and Lyarra wonders if that is because she did not believe that Lyarra was the blood of the dragon. Were the dragons a test? As they get to know each other better, Lyarra decides this was probably not the case.

Daenerys is sweet and beautiful and sometimes scary. With her classic Valyrian looks, Lyarra cannot help but feel small next to her. Because she knows that when Aegon weds it won’t be to her, but to Daenerys. Daenerys is everything a Targaryen Queen should be. She has sheets of silver hair, wide violet eyes, and skin as smooth as milk. It I said that the Dragon Queen is the most beautiful woman in the world. And she has an army and dragons, so she is a desirable ally. How can Lyarra compete with that?

And for some reason the thought that Aegon will never want her again hurts _deeply_. Because their shy kisses had become more ardent and Lyarra wants nothing more than to be with Aegon the way that a wife is with her husband. He’s had his fingers in her and his lips around her teats but they are not wed. And Lyarra is reminded of that time and time again when Aegon puts nothing but his fingers in her maidenhood.

She hates herself for being like this, for even thinking of her aunt has competition. Her sweet aunt, who gives her warm hugs and is so kind to Lyarra that it makes her head spin. If Lyarra is honest, she could not even fault Aegon for falling for Daenerys. Lyarra thinks maybe she’s fallen for her a little herself. She has never idolized a woman the way she idolizes her aunt, the way Arya had idolized her.

But then Dany tells her that she had been raped by her first husband, sold by her brother. Lyarra holds her when she cries, and she wants to cry herself. How could her uncle do such a thing? To the blood of his blood? Aegon would never treat her the way Viserys had treated Daenerys. And although some time has passed since she had wed at thirteen, Dany still seems traumatized by the idea of marriage, the idea of bending to another person.

She tells her niece about the witch who killed her husband and their child. Or, more specifically, Dany admits to her own childish mistake, to trust a witch and then putting her husband out of his misery. She tells Lyarra how the maegi had said Dany would never bare a child but for her own blood. How she had despaired because Viserys was dead and the witch had cursed her to never have children without her own blood. She could not be a mother without her brother, the witch had said, for there were no Targaryens left to give her the seed of life.

But then she met with Aegon, and Daenerys says that she realized that she wanted more than to be a lonely Queen on a throne. And then she told her about how she had rejoiced to see her nephew alive, about his promise that she could meet Lyarra if she travelled West. She tells Lyarra how she had smiled for days when she realized she wouldn’t have to bare the Crown alone, when she realized that she could be a mother to more than dragons.

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing,” Dany whispers as she holds Lyarra’s hand.

They sleep together like children that night, and Lyarra holds Daenerys as she cries. As her sobs quiet Daenerys looks at Lyarra differently, with a sense of wonder in her eyes and Lyarra kisses her aunt for the first time.

Her lips are soft, smooth, not at all probing. It’s different than kissing Aegon. Where Aegon is gentle and curious, Daenerys is commanding and domineering. And she likes kissing her, likes kissing Daenerys a lot, for she is warm like the sun.

They pull away from each other and Daenerys smiles and Lyarra is struck because she doesn’t know how she hadn’t seen how sensual Daenerys is, with her high breasts, her pink lips, and her rounded hips. As she cuddles together in Daenerys’ solar, Lyarra thinks she would like to kiss Daenerys again, and can’t help but feel as though that urge is betraying Aegon.

* * *

Daenerys is mischievous, and sly in a way that Aegon lacks. She gives Lyarra lingering looks as they eat their meals, and hugs her affectionately. Lyarra thinks Aegon sees nothing romantic in Daenerys’s eyes, that he is ignorant to the soft touches and whispers that happen between the two girls. All he sees, Lyarra thinks, is the wonder of female companionship, of sisterhood.

Daenerys is assertive, and she is constantly near Lyarra, claiming what she considers to be her own. The dragon is possessive, this Lyarra knows.

“We cannot do this-” Lyarra begins, her lips and chest flushed “What about Aegon? You are meant to marry him.”

Dany gives her a funny look, “I shall not be marrying Egg.”

Lyarra is aghast, “But-”

“I thought _you_ were marrying him,” Dany continues as she slips the strap of Lyarra’s gown down her arm, “I know how you desire him. I see it in your eyes. And his.”

“I-I,” stammers Lyarra but she knows she cannot deny wanting something she cannot have, “I-yes, of course. He is brave, and smart, and kind and-”

“ _I_ am all of those things too,” Dany teases, “Would you not marry _me_?”

Lyarra knows what the Westerosi think of women who love women. Septa Mordane had called them unnatural and slatternly. Lyarra had long had a crush on Edric Poole, Jeyne Poole’s older brother (who hadn’t looked her way a single time) and had never thought that she would feel for a woman the way she feels for Daenerys. Perhaps it is only Daenerys. Perhaps not. Lyarra is not sure about anything, currenly.

“What about Aegon?” Lyarra finally gasps as Daenerys wraps her lips around Lyarra’s erect nipple.

“There is a simple solution,” Daenerys says as she pushes Lyarra roughly onto the bed, “And you know exactly what it is.”

Lyarra does know, she knows exactly what Daenerys is suggesting, but she forgets everything when Daenerys puts her lips in a place that only Aegon had even touched. Her tongue is warm and wet and perfect. It glides into her cunt slowly, and Lyarra’s eyes roll back into her head as Daenerys watches her orgasm.

She’s still sensitive, and in a moment of bravery, Lyarra brushes her fingers across Dany’s lower lips. She’s soaking, and Lyarra is nervous that she might make a mistake but she does what Egg has done for her and that night, as their limbs are intermingled, and her head is at Daenerys’ bare breast, Lyarra realizes she can’t help loving Daenerys Targaryen.

* * *

Arya Stark was once Arya Underfoot, and had long wished to ride a dragon.

“ _Please_ , Lya,” Arya begs as she follows her cousin around her solar, “Visērion likes me.”

Lyarra rolls her eyes, “That’s not the word I would use, Arya. Just because she tolerates your presence and doesn’t burn you alive doesn't mean she _likes_ you.”

“Well _I_ think she likes me,” Arya says with a harumph.

“Fine,” Lyarra says, “If you tell me what you were doing in Braavos.”

The air gets colder and Arya grows stiff. This is one conversation they have not had. Arya has been in Lys and then Myr with Aegon and Lyarra for _months_. Every time Lyarra asks her young cousins how she ended up across the Narrow Sea she shuts down. And Lyarra can see it’s happening again.

“Arya,” Lyarra says as she bends to her cousin’s height, “I am not asking for curiosity. I am asking because I care about you, and I am worried.”

Arya deflates and sits down in the same manner she had been doing for so many turns. This is the Arya she is used to now, not the one who pestered her and ran around in excitement. This is not the Arya she knows and loves. This Arya is cold, collected, and without emotion.

“You’ll hate me,” Arya finally says in a small voice.

“I could never hate you. We’re family,” Lyarra comforts, as she strokes Arya’s short hair.

“Promise?”

“I swear on Ghost,” Lyarra replies.

Arya takes a breath. “I escaped King’s Landing right as they brought father to the executioner’s block, but I did not know that he escaped because I was dragged away, and then forced into a convoy travelling to the Wall. I met a Faceless Man on that road and I killed people,” Arya says bluntly, “And my only friend was Sandor Clegane. We made it to Riverrun, where Robb and Margaery were supposed to be attending Uncle Edmure’s wedding to a Frey girl. They killed everyone,” Arya sobbed, “Then those Bolton traitors killed Grey Wind, and they killed both of Margaery’s brothers. Then they sewed Grey Wind’s head to one the Umbers and paraded him around.We lost them in the fray, but mother, Robb, and Margaery were all hurt badly, and the Hound thought for sure all three were dying. So we left. We didn't know they managed to escape down the river back to Riverrun.”

Lyarra is looking at Arya in veiled horror. How could she have kept this in for so long? And how had she managed to see so much? Arya was a child no longer.

“Sandor brought me to the Vale to give me to Aunt Lysa,” Arya says breathing deeply, “And I just started laughing because she had been murdered too. Winterfell had fallen. The Hound and I heard that Bran and Rickon were dead. There was nothing left for me in Westeros except _Lady Sansa_.”

Lyarra is terrified by how Arya sneers her sister’s name, how angry she still is at her older sister.

“This is all her fault!” Arya cries out angrily, “She told the Queen we were leaving. She wrote that stupid note to Robb. All she cares about is her beloved Prince Joffrey!”

Lyarra doesn’t stop Arya from airing her feelings. She needs to get past this, move on from the anger she feels over what had happened to her, and Lyarra knows that this is the only way that this can be done.

“So I used the coin that the Faceless Man gave me and I took a ship to Braavos. I wanted to find you, but I didn’t know if you were alive. And I didn’t know where you were. I just gave up and I became No One,” Arya says ominously, “I finished my training. I know plenty of ways to kill people now. So I can kill every person who wronged our family on my list.” She pauses for a moment, “I had my bag of faces, and then Aegon came to Braavos. I don’t know how he found me, or how he knew I was in Braavos, but he offered to bring me to you.”

“But you didn’t know him,” Lyarra finally speaks for the first time in the story, “Why would you go with him? A stranger?”

“Because he called you Visenya,” Arya says, “And said that Ghost was waiting. So I knew he was real, I just _knew_. So I went. But I had to kill the waif, or they wouldn’t let me leave.”

Lyarra is speechless. How many has her younger sister killed? How many had met their end at her sword? She doesn’t ask, because she doesn’t want to know.

“Do you hate me now that you know?” Arya asks finally, her voice hollow as if she’s ready for rejection. Lyarra knows that voice. She’s used it her whole life.

“No,” Lyarra says decisively, “I could never hate you, Arya. I’m glad you told me what happened. And soon we will go home, I swear it.”

Arya hugs her so tightly she sort of can’t breathe, “I wish _you_ were my mother, Lyarra.” And gods does it hurt to hear that, because she knows what that means and hadn’t she felt the same way? Hadn’t she wished Lady Catelyn was her mother so she would love her? Hadn’t she even wished that Wylla was her mother? Hadn’t she wished that ‘Septa Lemore’ was her mother because she looked up to the woman?

Lyarra hoists Arya onto Visērion, and they take an exhilarating flight across Myr. In the end, Arya’s tears are dry and she is all smiles.

Aegon is waiting for them when they return.

“We leave for Pentos at dawn,” he says, “I’ve sent a messenger across the Narrow Sea to our allies on Dragonstone. They will contact your uncle for an alliance, and we will take back our throne.”

“Can I come?” Arya asks.

Lyarra looks at her incredulously, “We’re not going to leave you here.”

“No,” Arya says, “I mean, can I come help you take King’s Landing? I need to finish my list.”

Chills go down Lyarra’s spine but she forces it not to show, “Who’s there?” she finally asks.

“Joffrey. Queen Cersei. The Mountain,” Arya replies ominously.

“Ah ah,” Aegon chides, “You must leave The Mountain for my uncle Oberyn. Dorne has a score to settle.”

Lyarra whips her head to the side, “You knew?” she demands.

Aegon looks at her curiously, “I did pick her up from the most infamous assassins’ organization in the Known World,” he points out.

Lyarra storms away in annoyance but Aegon turns to Arya, “Don’t tell your cousin but I have word Joffrey is still alive.”

Arya smiles a toothy grin.

* * *

They travel to Pentos to gather the last of their ships and soldiers and gold from Illyrio Mopatis. He is simpering, Lyarra thinks, and wholly unimpressed with everything except Aegon and the dragons. He and Daenerys’ knight, Ser Jorah, are pestering the Targaryens about the line of succession. Illyrio suggests Aegon marry Daenerys, and Jorah suggests that Aegon marry from the Stormlands to gain their loyalty. No one thinks he should marry her, Lyarra notices bitterly. As usual, she’s the last choice and it doesn’t hurt any less than before.

Aegon opens his mouth before Lyarra cuts in, “Why can we not all marry?”

She can’t believe she’s said it, the thing she’s been thinking of for so long, the thing that would give her both of the people she loves, both of the souls she feels complete hers. But if she does not say it, she will never know. It is silent as everyone stares at her so she continues, “Aegon the Conqueror had two wives why should not my brother?”

“The Faith will not approve of such a thing,” Septa Lemore points out.

Aegon is looking at Lyarra with such an intensity that Lyarra is blushing. Maybe he _does_ know what Lyarra and Daenerys have done in Daenerys’ bedchambers. He certainly does not look surprised at Lyarra’s outburst. “A dragon does not concern itself with the beliefs of the masses,” Aegon finally says sagely, “And we are dragons.”

“The dragon must have three heads,” Daenerys continues, in affirmation.

“The dragon must have three heads,” Lyarra repeats, far less confidently than Daenerys.

“We will wed,” Aegon says firmly, “As our family has always done, and has done since Old Valyria. I shall wed my sister and my aunt within a weeks time.”

“And we shall wed each other,” Daenerys says as she steps closer to Lyarra to grip her hand tightly

Lyarra wants to step on her aunt’s foot, because everyone is looking at them queerly. They will think them savages if they find out the kisses and soft touches they have shared. Lyarra loves Aegon _and_ Dany, and both of them wedding Aegon is the only way that Lyarra and Daenerys can love each other. But she looks at Arya and her face is impassive. Maybe she knows? Or maybe she hasn’t caught on?

Even if Jorah and Lemore look as though they have swallowed sour lemons, Aegon seems entirely unbothered, and Lyarra finally decides that Aegon most certainly knows the delicate proclivities between his sister and his aunt, “We are family,” he replies, “We shall all love each other.”

He says it with complete finality, and kisses both Lyarra and Daenerys on the cheeks before offering to walk them both in the gardens. When they return they make the final preparations to return to Westeros.

“The Velaryons and Celtigars will receive us on Dragonstone,” Aegon declares, “They’ve taken our ancestral seat now that Stannis Baratheon is disposed of and are readying it for our arrival. The Velaryons have sent most of their fleet, and they are perhaps three days away from arriving in Pentos. That will give us the last of the ships we need to take the Iron Throne.”

“And what of the city?” Dany asks, “We cannot rule a graveyard. How do you propose we take King’s Landing without killing all of the smallfolk?”

“No dragons,” Lyarra says and Dany nods.

“We are timing this so that we arrive just as the city is sacked. Robb Stark’s Army is approaching from the South end of the city, and Ned Stark’s from the North. The smallfolk will be gone. We only need secure the Red Keep.”

“It seems too easy,” Lyarra says.

“Well they’ve been fighting war for too long,” Aegon says, “Their resources are nearly spent. And since we paid off the Crown’s debt to the Iron Bank-”

“So that’s what you were doing in Braavos!” Lyarra exclaims.

Aegon ignores her surprise, “It means the bank is backing us. They’ve refused to give any more loans to the Crown, and have demanded all of their loans from the Lannisters and their allies be paid in full.”

Daenerys looks impressed, “A worthy scheme, nephew.”

“I thank you,” Aegon says with a tilt to his head, “Jon hated the plan because he does not trust the Iron Bank but it’s working in our favor thus far.”

“Speaking of the Crown debt,” Lyarra cuts in, “When we take this throne, what will we owe and to whom?”

“Most of the Crown’s debt is to the Lannisters,” Aegon informs them, “I have no intention of paying that money back. In fact, I would like to seize Casterly Rock and all the gold within it but from what Varys has told us, there is little gold left, and the nobles would be unhappy. The Crown also owes a debt to the Faith of nearly a million gold dragons, and about that much to the Tyrells.”

“We should pay the Faith first,” Daenerys says, “They are dangerous.”

“Would the Tyrells forgive the debt the Crown owes to them if we give them a seat on the Small Council?”

“Perhaps,” Aegon says finally, “Varys tells us Mace Tyrell is an idiot. We may use this to our advantage.”

“Why do you have to pay off all the Crown’s debts now?” asks a voice from behind.

“Arya!” Lyarra exclaims, “I’ve told you not to eavesdrop.

Arya doesn’t even apologize, “Didn’t King Robert and Queen Cersei borrow that money? Shouldn’t they be responsible for the debt? Maybe if he spent more time with Father when he was hand and less time hunting and whoring-”

Dany snorts but Lyarra pauses.

“Wait-”

Aegon turns, “Wasn’t Petyr Baelish Master of Coin?”

Arya glares, “I hate Littlefinger, even though he was friends with my mother. He’s creepy and he always looked at Sansa-”

“Robert spent, aye,” Lyarra cuts in, “But everything Littlefinger touches turns to gold. Even in the North we heard about how he snuck his way onto the Small Council.”

“You think he’s plotting,” Dany surmises.

“Isn’t he?” Aegon asks, “Your father told the men we sent to rescue him that Littlefinger betrayed him. He’s apparently excellent at levying taxes and making gold appear but somehow he’s also making it disappear. And when Jon and I went to the Iron Bank, we had to work hard to convince them to call all the Lannister and their allies debts. They seemed unwilling, as though they had other plans.”

“You think he’s tried to do the same thing.”

“No one has seen him since he left for the Vale to wed Lysa Arryn,” Lyarra points out, “And he tried to take Sansa but she was caught.”

They all share looks, “When we take King’s Landing, we must go to the Vale and question him.”

* * *

They wed four days later, all three of them, with a Septon. He looks unhappy about what he is doing but Aegon completely ignores the Septon’s displeasure as he kisses both of his brides. They dance and drink, and the Dothraki revel in the celebration of the new _Khal_ and _Khaleesi._ They are ready to retire, but Aegon, sensing Lyarra’s nerves forbids the bedding and refuses to take his brides in front of the Khalasar as the Dothraki do.

He leads them to his solar, which is in between Lyarra’s and Daenerys’ in Illyrio’s manse. As soon as he closes the door, Daenerys puts her hands in Lyarra’s hair and plants a searching kiss on her.

Aegon says nothing, just watches as his wives kiss each other. Lyarra is melting in the puddle of wetness that is building up in her smallclothes. When Daenerys pulls away they are both flushed and Lyarra’s lips are swollen. Aegon finally takes a step forward, and he begins to pull on Lyarra’s gowns and tells her to begin to remove Daenerys’. He kisses down her neck and then Daenerys turns around and begins to kiss Aegon with Lyarra between. She feels fingers pulling her smallclothes and then Daenerys’ teeth are at her nipples as Aegon’s tongue is in her mouth.

They’re all naked now, lying on the bed and Aegon has his fingers in her hole as he kisses Daenerys. He leans back, his cock standing proud and long and Lyarra thinks it is as beautiful as he.

“Take her first, Egg,” Daenerys says enticingly as her fingers spread Lyarra’s labia apart, “Look at her. Soaking.”

Lyarra gasps and then moans loudly when her aunt moves to put her tongue to her cunt. It’s too much, almost, and then Aegon is pushing his cock straight into her hole. He is gentle, but firm but Lyarra is afraid. Daenerys said that losing her maidenhead hurt and Lyarra is waiting for the pain.

“Be calm, sweet sister,” he says, “I love you. I won’t hurt you.”

True to his word, she feels only a pinch when his cock is fully in and as she begins to relax, Daenerys swings her thighs over Lyarra’s face, putting her wet cunt straight to her niece’s tongue. Lyarra has never tasted a quim before, and thinks she would not like it if it were anyone but Daenerys, and she can feel Aegon’s cock moving faster and faster as he mounts her harder and harder. He’s ramming into her so deeply that it almost hurts. She can feel his cock hitting something and she stops licking Daenerys for a moment to cry out.

Daenerys looks at her with a heated gaze and then moves to kiss Lyarra again as she puts her backside into Aegon’s face. They switch a moment later, Daenerys rolling to the side with Aegon’s cock shoving into her from behind. Dany can taste herself on Lyarra’s tongue and Aegon’s thrusts are becoming erratic.

“Spill in us both, nephew,” she demands, “And we should have two heirs rather than one.”

Aegon grunts and then pushes Lyarra to lie atop Daenerys so their cunts are touching. He starts thrusting in Lyarra’s hole again and she can’t hep but moan like a Lyseni pleasure whore when she feels his seed shoot into her womb. It’s hot and sticky and then he pulls his cock out, shoves it into their aunt and continues to spill into her. When he finally pulls out completely, Daenerys gently pushes Lyarra and they lay next to each other, cunts full of Aegon’s hot seed.

“Might we be with child now?” Lyarra asks, because she knows not how long it takes to create an heir.

Daenerys smiles as she leans over and begins to play with Lyarra’s cunt, the cum sticking to her fingers. She puts it into her mouth and then turns to Aegon, “It may take more seed than this, nephew.”

His cock is hardening again, seeing them both spread before him, holes red and gaping.

He cums in them both twice more that night and Lyarra can feel sleep coming. She feels boneless, as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. But Daenerys shoves a pillow under both of their wombs to keep Aegon’s seed in the right place and they sleep until morning.

* * *

Lyarra dreads the boat to Westeros, because she dreads the boat ride. She had been sick for the days leading to their conquer, as had Daenerys. The boats made it worse. In fact, they had both had such bad bellies that Aegon had taken them each only a handful of times the entire ride. Aegon was concerned, but Daenerys was sure that it was a sign that they were both with child. Lyarra does not want to hope for a babe because she is afraid to feel disappointment when her moonblood comes.

Ghost is acting strange though. She keeps sniffing at her oddly, and she follows Lyarra everywhere. She refuses to leave their berth on the ship, even when Lyarra is otherwise engaged with Dany and Aegon. She just sits sagely, waiting for something. Lyarra thinks maybe her direwolf has sensed something she has not.

They take Dragonstone without any losses because the bannermen have already disposed of Baratheon forces. Stannis Baratheon is at the Wall, with little guarding Dragonstone. They secure the castle and release the dragons to hunt and fly. The loyal Targaryen bannermen are already waiting for them. Aegon is pleased to see the Velaryons and Celtigars, and shows their Valyrian allies both of his beautiful wives.

Aegon’s uncle Oberyn has arrived with several of his daughters as well, and is hugging his nephew tightly. He presents him with a crown.

“Is that-” Daenerys begins.

“Aegon the Conqueror’s crown!” Lyarra gasps with wonder in her eyes.

“Dorne has had it this whole time?” Aegon questions as her feels the weight in his hands.

“Just so,” Oberyn says, “It was waiting to sit upon your head. Rhaenys’ crown has been with us too.”

Then he glares hard at Lyarra, still angry because the whole of Westeros believed that Elia Martell had been set aside. Aegon sees his cool behavior and sternly corrects him, “We may share blood only of our father but our mothers loved all three of us, and each other. You will treat Visenya as you would me. She is a Queen. And my family.” Oberyn’s attitude does change, but it takes a while. Eventually he does decide that he likes Lyarra. Lyarra likes him back, if only because he is witty and sarcastic.

As soon as they are settled, Lyarra calls for a maester, hopeful that both she and Daenerys have done their duty. She wants to give Aegon heirs, wants to honor their marriage. But she is terrified that he will set them both aside when they have done their duty. When she shares this fear with Daenerys as they wait, her aunt laughs loudly and kisses her on the cheek.

“Sweet niece, he would not set us aside. He fucks us both because he wants to put his cock into us, not just for heirs.”

That calms Lyarra enough that when the maester examines them both and they give the good news to their husband, Lyarra is only slightly surprised when he still visits them in the evening.

They stay at Dragonstone for only three days. Enough to rest and gather supplies. Arya is anxious to get to King’s Landing until Lyarra says that under no circumstances will Arya be drawing a sword in the Capital.

“It is not safe,” Lyarra says, “You are still young yet.”

“ _You’re_ going,” Arya bemoans, “And so is Dany.”

“I must go,” Lyarra replies with amusement, “How else shall Visērion burn our enemies?”

Arya has a look on her face that tells Lyarra that she has no plans to wait at Dragonstone for the battle to be won.

“Fine,” Lyarra says, “You will ride upon Visērion with me. But you will wear armor, and if there is danger I will send you away with Ghost.”

Arya hastily agrees and as they mount Visērion, Lyarra feels the words of both of her houses for the first time.

“Winter is coming,” Lyarra says, “In Fire and Blood.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of this story. I already have chapter 2 written, and I am about to start writing chapter 3. Once chapter 3 is written, I will edit and post chapter 2. Please review?
> 
> Important: I would like to also mention that yes, Lyarra is not exactly like Jon, but I don't think she could be. Lyarra is a woman in a world dominated by men, and although Jon did not have the same privileges as for example, Robb or Bran, he did not have to deal with some of the oppression that for example, Arya or Sansa dealt with. Lyarra is a woman, not a man. She may weild a sword, but similar to Arya and Brienne, that does not give her the respect that it would give to a man of similar status.
> 
> As a historian, I know quite clearly, that women during the medieval period were nothing if they were not a daughter, a sister, a wife, or a mother. The worth of a woman was (and in some parts of the world still is) tied to relationships to men. This period typical sexism makes itself present by shaping the way that women behave. Lyarra could not be a quick to anger as Jon. She could not have the self assurance that he had, and though Jon is a bastard, men have the ability to create their own future, and women have not had this privilige until the 20th century.
> 
> Does this mean she is perfect in a way Jon is not? No. It means that she has different flaws that Jon would never have as a man. Thanks for reading this! xx


	2. The Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are more demons in Lyarra's life than the Lannisters and Lady Catelyn, and she learns this the hard way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Big upload for you all today, which means (you guessed it!) I've almost finished writing chapter 3! There are two scenes left to still write, but the rest of the chapter is written, therefore I feel comfortable uploading this chapter. It does have smut, as you all seemed to want! This chapter is MONSTER length, at over 16,000 words. Before editing, this chapter was around 11,000 words but after heavy revision in preparation for chapter 3 and adding points of clarification, this chapter became much longer than I expected or wanted. I would have preferred a shorter chapter, but there was no way to break this chapter apart comfortably, so it means an extra long chapter for all of you!

* * *

King’s Landing falls hilariously easily because Robb Stark and his army have already begun to take the city from the South and Ned from the North when the Targaryen forces arrive to take the Red Keep by the sea. The Seven Kingdoms were suffering under the War of Five Kings, and the smallfolk are starving.

Aegon is staring at the throne, looking up at the thing that so many had died for.

“You are Joffrey,” Aegon says, “Waters.”

“I am a Baratheon! I am King!” the stupid boy screeches, face purpling in anger. If he weren’t so annoying, Lyarra might almost pity him because he is a _boy_ not a _man,_ but he is also an _idiot_. And he is going to die like an idiot, if she is reading her husband correctly. Also, if the reports are true, he’s paraded Sansa around naked and has had her beaten. She and her cousin may not be close, but Sansa is _family_.

“It matters not,” Aegon says twirling the Valyrian blade that Illyri had gifted him before he left Pentos, “Either way you are on my throne. Move.”

He says it so commanding that even Lyarra swallows from where she stands next to Daenerys.

But Joffrey is uninterested in vacating his position high in the room upon the throne that Lyarra knows that Aegon has dreamed of for his entire life. Lyarra thinks this desire to stay on the throne is tremendously stupid, since all of his guards are dead by their forces, and the Throne Room is secured in their favor. He has no chance at surviving, and at this point Aegon looks annoyed enough that he may not even offer the Black and may just put Joffrey on the block.

Cersei’s voice is grating as she’s shrieking at the Targaryens, like steel on steel and it hurts Lyarra’s ears. It hurts almost as much as how Sansa barely seems happy to see her and Arya.

“I will never give up what is my right to a product of sister-fucking like you!”

Daenerys doesn’t even look insulted, but she looks exasperated. She turns to Lyarra and says acidly, “He’s such a fool that he’s managed to insult himself and his whore mother in one sentence.”

Lyarra holds in a snort but manages to nod sagely. Perhaps all Targaryens are used to nasty comments about incest, since it had been such a long practice in her mother’s family. Lyarra supposes she should get used to it now, since the babe in her belly is also her brother’s child. Thinking about it makes it feel strange. Her child will also be her niece or nephew? She pushed the thought away.

Arya sneers from her place gripping Lyarra’s skirts though. Assassin she may be, but grown woman she is not, “They’re Targaryens, you stupid,” she says, “Everyone expects it from them. But your stupid mother is just stupid like you!”

Joffrey looks incredibly insulted and Aegon is holding in laughter because although Arya is only twelve the insult seems to work against Joffrey so all he does is pat his good-sister’s head, “A worthy insult, for an unworthy Usurper,” he praises. Then he turns to Rhaegal, who is watching the interaction through intelligent eyes. “Dracarys!” he commands and the dragon sprays fire that terrifies all but the riders in the room.

Joffrey looks as though he has soiled himself on the throne and Lyarra hopes that Aegon isn’t going to sit in Joffrey’s mess. But Aegon opens his mouth to command fire again until Lyarra hastily cuts in, “Husband. Arya is restless. Should she not have the thing she has wanted since she escaped King’s Landing?” It kills her to say, because she doesn’t _want_ Arya to kill. But she thinks if Arya does not have the revenge that she wants, she may never be able to rest. Arya will never have peace if she does not have Joffrey’s head. She must complete her list, and she has said this to Lyarra multiple times.

Aegon pauses and looks to his hip where he sees little Arya pulling on his jerkin, hopping excitedly and holding up her thin sword. It would be easy to think this is the old Arya, if she didn’t have a blade in her hand, “Oh, please,” she near begs and from across the throne room, Sansa looks ashen and disgusted by what she sees. _Now it is not just me that Sansa is judging,_ Lyarra thinks spitefully and then ignores her.

Aegon bends to her height and says, “If you can take his head, it is yours.”

Lyarra is disturbed by the wide smile on Arya’s face and it only grows when she replies, “And Queen Cersei, please.”

Aegon looks amused which terrifies Lyarra a little more, but Daenerys looks impassive, as though she has no care for the coming torrents of blood in the Red Keep, “You would take all my enemies from me?” he playfully laments rubbing the shadow of hair on his jaw, “Do as you wish, wolfgirl. Just leave the Mountain Who Rides. I have a score to settle for our sister.”

Lyarra has never seen someone move so fast, and is shocked by how fast Arya has incapacitated Joffrey, and pushed him down the winding stairs of the Iron Throne. He’s on the ground, bruised and bleeding and Arya holds out her hand to reach for the sword she had ripped from the mummer’s king side.

“You called it Widow’s Wail,” she says, face emotionless, “But it used to be Ice and now it will be Dead King’s Scream,” she looks Cersei right in the eye and says, “Winter has come for house Lannister, in Fire and Blood.” She swings what used to be her father’s great sword and Joffrey’s head rolls, crown of prancing stags tumbling to the side. Cersei is screaming and Lyarra knows if they were here, her father and Lady Stark would be horrified at what they have seen, what Arya has become.

But they do not know the new Arya Stark, who had tried to become no one. They barely knew her when they looked in her eyes each day. Arya is not the same as she once was. She had wanted honor, to be a knight, to be strong. Aye, she was strong now, but the honor Arya has is reserved for family and no other. She is no knight. She is death.

Arya kicks Joffrey’s head straight into Cersei and as she screams, Arya wraps her hands around her neck until she ceases to breath. It’s grim to watch, and the way Cersei’s vessels expand in her face is grotesque. Lyarra wonders if it was truly necessary to kill the former Queen in such a brutal way but Arya has a glint in her eye that tells Lyarra she has been planning this for a very long time. She wants to see Cersei die slowly, and painfully.

Aegon picks up the crown that had fallen from Joffrey’s head, but has no desire to put it on his head so he throws it aside and begins to climb the Iron Throne. When Aegon sits on the throne, Lyarra lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “This crown,” he muses as he looks at the glimmer gold on the ground, “caused the death of my mothers, my sister, my grandmother and grandfather.”

He calls for Rhaegal, and the courtiers scream out in terror as he is engulfed in dragonfire. But when the heat clears he is still there and the throne seems wider, melted into a seat with space just enough for three.

Aegon looks godly now, Lyarra thinks, as though something is making him say these words. He is meaningful with his words, “The dragon must have three heads, Visenya, Daenerys.”

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Daenerys replies as she begins to step up the throne, “I have come to rule, and I shall rule.”

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” Lyarra repeats, as strong as she can but she thinks it still comes out weak, especially after Daenerys. She doesn’t want a throne. Doesn’t want to rule a kingdom. She wants Aegon and Daenerys and that is all. But the three are one in the same so she will be a Queen to love those who complete her.

The Iron Throne is blisteringly hot for a normal person, but for Lyarra it does not seem to burn, and it is uncomfortable. It’s too rigid, and it’s too sharp. Daenerys seems to agree with her assessment by the way her back shifts when she sits, and it takes all Lyarra can do not to request a cushion for her aching backside. Aegon had had them both roughly from behind the night before battle and riding the dragons had made her thighs sore.

Ser Barristan opens the gates for Robb and Ned Stark, who are willing to treat with the Targaryens and when Ned sees her he sucks in a breath because he knows from Lyarra’s letter that she was leaving to Essos. And he’s been in contact with Aegon. To see her though, truly see her, is something else entirely. Maybe he thinks she looks like her mother and Aegon looks like Rhaegar.

Robb just looks confused, and by the way he is looking between her, Daenerys and Aegon, he doesn’t understand what he is seeing. It makes her a bit bitter because it means uncle Ned is keeping secrets yet again. Three years ago, she would never have thought that her uncle could keep such a secret, would never have thought him anything less than an honest and honorable man. But it looks like this is one secret he holds deeper within him than any other. Robb’s surprise can only mean that Ned had neglected to tell the rest of the family about Lyarra, or more acurrately, _Visenya_.

“Lyarra?” Robb questions, “We thought you were – What are you doing here? You should have told us you were safe.”

“You do not make demands of the dragon,” Daenerys replies in annoyance and Lyarra wants to kiss her but also wants her not to anger Robb. Aegon doesn’t looke as though he cares either way, and Lyarra wants to roll her eyes because his distaste towards Robb is so very unwarranted.

Her uncle says nothing and just stares as though he is seeing her for the first time and Lyarra can’t cry because there are people here who will not just think she is weak but _know_ she is weak. She won’t let Lady Catelyn be right about her. She is a _dragon_ , dammit!

“Yes,” Aegon replies for her instead, “Your honor knows no bounds, Lord Stark. I thank you for keeping my sister safe from the Usurper. It is the only reason I have not taken your head for placing that fat whoremonger on my throne.”

Ned’s eye twitches but he isn’t in the position to go against the dragons, both literally and figuratively. He shouldn’t have ever let Robert take the throne. It was not his to take, and Robert’s idiocy nearly destroyed the Kingdom. Ned knows it, especially after being Hand of the King.

“I am a gracious king,” Aegon continues, “And I gave my word to Queen Visenya that I would spare the lives of your wolfpack if you swear allegiance to me. To all three of us. You will do so now so that I may keep my promise to my lady wife.”

Robb is terribly confused and so Ned decides that now is time to explain because he can’t keep this secret anymore. He explains to everyone in the throne room what he did, his promise to his sister as she died. He looks so guilty, and looks even more guilty when he admits that Benjen had been there to watch Lyanna wed both Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.

Robb is staring at her with new amazement, as is Sansa and Lyarra just feels bitterness. Robb had always cherished her, had always appreciated her as a sister even if he didn't see her as his equal. But Sansa. Sansa had belittled her every chance she got, and encouraged her equal cruel friends, Jeyne and the others to do the same. Sansa was a bully, and from what Arya had told her, was still delusional about Joffrey, songs, knights, and princes when she left Winterfell. Even as they took the Throne Room, Sansa had barely acknowledged that she had seen her until she was forced to look her in the eye. But maybe she had changed. Varys had said that Joffrey was abusive to Sansa. Perhaps she had learned that the world was not a song, and that happiness was just a fairytale. Perhaps she herself had learned the lesson she had helped enforce on Lyarra when she lived at Winterfell. She would never wish pain upon her cousin, but she hopes that perhaps she is now a woman and not a girl.

“She’s not a bastard?” Sansa questions her father and Lyarra wants to scream at herself because even hearing the word hurts. Why has this followed her for so long? Why will it always influence the way she sees herself and how other see her? If blood is all anyone cares for, then why didn’t they just accept that she was Queen now and move on? And why is Sansa silly enough to say such a thing, when she is in the presence of Aegon and Daenerys who have _dragons_?

Aegon stiffens and he begins to redden in the face and Ned chastises his daughter, “I told you countless times to treat your elder sister with respect.”

“But mother said-”

“Did you?” Aegon demands viciously, “It seems that the mistreatment by your wife runs deep in Winterfell.”

Lyarra tries not to blush at Aegon’s decision to bring up Catelyn Stark and her awful childhood. She doesn’t want everyone to know that Lady Catelyn had done her best to ruin Lyarra’s life. But she also knows that Aegon has held anger on her behalf for years now, and he’s mentioned his hate for Catelyn several times. Thinking about Catelyn makes her want to cry, almost. But she is a dragon now, and she must _be_ a dragon. She must stand tall and strong and proud.

“Send for your wife,” Daenerys says firmly, “We would much like to _speak_ to her.”

It sounds ominous to everyone in the room, and it’s meant to. Daenerys is imposing, and her presence nearly fills the room because her blood runs so hot and her passions run so high. Lyarra swears she sees Sansa gulp, as if she knows what’s coming. She does pity her, truly, because Sansa was young when she did those things, under the influence of her mother. And that mother is about to face a dragon. When the North come past the neck the South may bleed, but Starks do not survive in the South, and they know it.

“She did not know, Your Grace,” Ned said carefully, “I only wanted to protect Lyar-”

“Visenya,” Aegon corrects seemingly annoyed by Ned’s refusal to say her birth name, “My sister’s name is _Visenya_. As our mother wished it to be.”

It makes her heart soar, Lyarra realizes, to have Aegon recognize Lyanna as his mother too. They were family. And he loved her. She knows it, but can’t believe it, some days.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Ned says.

“Send for your wife,” Aegon repeats, “I promise no harm will come of her from me and mine while she is within these walls.”

Ned cannot decline even though nobody in the room believes Aegon at all. Lyarra isn’t sure if that is because they had heard about Lady Catelyn’s ruthless treatment of Lyarra, or if it’s because they believe Aegon is the Mad King reborn. To be honest, she’s not sure she cares.

* * *

It’s weird being near Robb again, knowing that every time Aegon sees him his eye twitches as though he is expecting her to run off with her cousin. Aegon doesn’t like Robb much. He’s not outwardly rude, but he doesn’t seem to care to talk to him. It’s petty, but there are worse things, so Lyarra lets it go. But Robb. He looks at her oddly, and Lyarra catches him staring at her at least half a dozen times before she pulls him aside.

“What?” she finally demands in annoyance. Pregnancy has made her temper more prominent. Her breasts are more prominent too, much to Aegon’s amazement.

“I just-” he begins, “It’s strange,” he finally says.

“What is?” Lyarra replies, “Seeing me again?”

“No,” Robb denies, “You are my sister, even if not in blood. It’s strange seeing you happy, is all.”

Lyarra is taken aback but realizes that Robb isn’t wrong. She had not smiled much at Winterfell, and Sansa’s snotty friends had often pointed out that Lyarra was prone to long periods of  sulking far from everyone else. Having spoken to Ser Arthur, she knows now that she gained this trait from her father, who was a generally sullen man.

“I never thought I would see you this happy,” Robb says finally, “And I am glad that I see it now. I only wished the best for you, Lyarra.”

“But,” Lyarra prompted, “I know you have something else to say.”

“But I wish you had told us. I wish you had let father explain. I wish you had at least said goodbye. He’s hurting, and he was hurting for a long time.”

Lyarra does understand this, because hadn’t she thought about it? Hadn’t she ridden away from Winterfell second guessing her decision to say anything to her uncle’s family?

“I could not,” she says, “You know why I could not.”

And he does know why. Lady Catelyn is only one reason of the many that Lyarra had left Winterfell in the dead of night. The other reason had been the impending arrival of Robert Baratheon. But she realizes they were not the only reasons. And Robb must realize this too.

“He only did what he thought was best,” Robb says.

“I know,” Lyarra grinds out, “But you do not understand what it is like to be shunned in your own home; what it is like to be hated for something out of your control. You will _never_ understand. I love Uncle Ned. I do. But I hate that his cowardice meant that I am like this-”

“Cowardice?” Robb questions, “It was bravery, loyalty, _honor_ that made him hide you, that made him betray his friend-”

“And it was cowardice that stopped him from helping my mother!” Lyarra finally says angrily, “Or did he not tell you? Of course he has not spoken of it. _I_ am not the stain on Uncle Ned’s honor. It is my mother.” She’s being vicious, and she knows it. She shouldn’t have said anything at all but there it is. Someone aside from Aegon and Dany will know about the feelings deep inside of her heart.

“What-” Robb begins, looking both angry and afraid of what Lyarra is about to say.

“My mother never wanted to marry the Usurper,” Lyarra says, “And she _begged_ Uncle Ned and Uncle Brandon to take her side and convince their father not to betroth her to him. She pleaded and pleaded and Uncle Benjen was the only one to take her side. Do you know what Uncle Ned said?”

Robb is stuck dumb. He doesn’t want to know anymore, Lyarra thinks, but something inside of her forces her to continue, “He said ‘Robert will change. Robert loves you’ as though those are the only things that matter in a happy marriage. What about my mother? What about what _she_  wanted?” Lyarra’s voice is rising and it’s taking everything in her not to shout. She’s still so resentful, and though she has spent years away from Winterfell and Honorable Ned Stark, she is still carrying anger in her heart. But she is a dragon now, and dragons _roar_.

“So, you see,” Lyarra says, “Uncle Ned chose a friend over family. He didn’t listen to my mother. And she ran away without telling him, because she didn’t trust him. Perhaps he was brave to hold me all these years. But he was a coward not to stop your mother’s sharp tongue or to choose my mother over the Usurper.

“Aye, he is honorable. But honor does not bring back the lives of my grandmother, or my father, or my mother and mother Elia or Rhaenys. Honor does not change the fact that Rhaenys was stabbed a hundred times, and that those who murdered and raped mother Elia were applauded for their deeds,” Lyarra takes a deep breath, “ _Honor_ ,” she says, voice quivering I her righteous fury, “will not save _my_ family, even though it has saved yours.”

When she marches away, Lyarra regrets what she said. Not because she doesn’t believe it. She does. Ever since she had read the letters from Lyanna to Benjen, and read all the entries in her mother’s diary she has been angrier than before. She is resentful, and she knows it. Perhaps she wouldn’t be if Ned were gone, if he had been executed by the Lannisters as they had planned. Maybe then she could forgive him, because he was dead and she had to forgive the dead. But he is alive and in front of her. And she can’t blame Robert anymore because he’s gone. She can’t blame Tywin anymore, because he’s gone. But Ned is here. She can be angry with Ned.

Maybe it’s unfair. Maybe she should move on, and let her anger go. Aegon had never said either way that she should or should not but Lyarra knows he holds no love for the Starks. Only Lyanna and Lyarra stay his hand from taking their heads and their position as Warden of the North. And Daenerys had been angrier than she, a ball of fiery anger alight.

It makes her feel guilty, because she knows that though he does not say it, though he is sparing in his affections, Uncle Ned loves her, and she loves him. Aye, she loves her Uncle Ned. He raised her, protected her from Robert. But he did not protect her from Catelyn, and he did not protect her from the world. And perhaps, worst of all, he did not protect Lyanna, and that is something that will always hang in the valley between them.

_Honor,_ Lyarra thinks, _is nothing but protecting oneself from the words of others. It helps no one but yourself._

* * *

There is something they must do as soon as King’s Landing is secure. The Great Houses have been called to take an oath of fealty, but there is another, more pressing matter. The Unsullied have sacked Casterly Rock and are bringing the Lannisters and their bannermen to King’s Landing. Aegon is biding his time with his uncle, ready to take The Moutain’s head.

Daenerys is courting the Tyrells who have much to offer the Crown if they are loyal.

But Lyarra has another task.

“Do you believe you can do this?” Aegon questions.

“Of course she can,” Dany replies, “Lya has proven time and time again that she is capable. Especially with children.”

Their confidence is inspiring, because if she’s honest, Lyarra doesn’t think she’s done anything special to gain their trust in her so far. Sure, she can be Ghost sometimes. Yes, she rides a dragon. And it’s true that she helped take King’s Landing. But she doesn’t want to rule. She doesn’t think she’s a great leader, and she thinks she’s a terrible strategizer.

She and uncle Ned will head to the Vale, one of the two most difficult kingdoms to take. Dorne has bent the knee to Aegon, who is of their blood. Prince Doran is happy to have his nephew on the Iron Throne, even if he has married Lyarra (who they do not openly dislike but dislike all the same) rather than his daughter Arianne. Dorne can be trusted more than anywhere else. But the Vale is being run by Petyr Baelish, a slippery snake. If she is to achieve her goal she most use the same attack that Visenya I used: child wonderment.

The ride is short from King’s Landing, and Visērion’s immense growth means her shadow covers entire villages as she flies across Maidenpool and to the impregnable fortress of the Eyrie. She lands in the courtyard on Visērion’s back and Ned is anxious to step off of the dragon. Lyarra doesn’t want to tease him, but he held onto her tighter than Arya had held, and she thinks that’s quite amusing.

By the defenses that are stationed here, it is clear that Petyr knew that they were coming. Obviously they’re useless since she’s on dragon back. Which means either he thought they would come using a full frontal attack and that they are foolish, or that he’s defending himself from someone else. Both possibilities are a problem.

“A snakelike man I never more knew,” Lyarra murmurs as she slides off of Visērion.

Suddenly there’s a child running at her, and Visērion’s hackles rise as though she is ready to attack. She’s been so ill-tempered lately, which is odd, because Visērion is the most gentle of Daenerys’ children. She is sweet, and doesn’t _enjoy_ blooding her enemies, unlike Drogon who revels in the destruction around him.

“ _Umbagon_!” she says to Visērion who shifts back down steam flowing from her nostrils in annoyance. Then she turns, “Hello Robert Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale.”

She is very aware that there are knights all around, ready to attack to protect her good-cousin. This is foolish, obviously, because they would never make it within ten feet of her before Visērion would burn them all to a crisp. She’s a fiercely loyal dragon, even if she’s been in a mood recently. She does admire their courage and loyalty though, truly, because more loyalty is needed in this gods forsaken realm.

“My name is Visenya Targaryen, Second of my name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Sweetrobin is looking at her speculatively and then he bows, “Your Grace,” then he sits up eagerly, “Can I ride your dragon?” he sort of reminds her of Arya, if Arya was small and sickly. But his eagerness is familiar to her. She can work with this attitude.

“I believe that could be arranged,” Lyarra says sweetly, “But Visērion only allows strangers to ride her if they give her a favor.”

Sweetrobin’s eyes widen, “But I’m no stranger, Your Grace. Right, Uncle Ned?”

Ned wants to bash his head in at how Lysa Arryn coddled her boy. There is no Jon Arryn in this weak, sickly boy.

Lyarra nods sagely, “You are not stranger to _me_ , Lord Paramount. But Visērion is quite shy. She likes to make friends though, and will let friends ride her.”

“If I do her a favor will she be my friend?” Robin finally asks, locking eyes with Visērion who doesn’t look interested in the conversation and looks like she would rather be eating or sleeping. Lyarra can’t say that she wouldn’t also prefer to be doing either of those things.

“Of course!” Lyarra promises, “Isn’t that right, Visērion?”

The dragon shifts her tail and whines as Lyarra pets her, and then begins to sniff her belly. She’s been doing that frequently, and although Lyarra isn’t annoyed by it, she doesn’t understand why her dragon keeps telling her that there is a new dragon coming, when she already knows. Drogon doesn’t do it to Daenerys.

“Nyke gīmigon iksan lēda riña, Visērion.”

“What did you say?” Sweetrobin demands before hastily adding, “Your Grace.”

Lyarra ignores him, “Visērion will allow you to ride him, with me, as long as you bring Petyr Baelish before us. The Crown desires to speak with him.”

Robin shuffles, “Alright. May we take a ride now, Your Grace?” he asks, moving closer.

“We may,” Lyarra says and turns to a Knight, “Fetch Lord Arryn furs so he does not catch a chill.”

They take a nice flight, with Lyarra’s arms around the boy to keep him safely on Visērion’s back. She does not trust his small arms to keep himself stable, and keeps a tight grasp on him. It is slightly difficult though, because he’s sitting against where her child is growing, and that child has made it clear that they enjoy kicking Visērion to fly faster. They fly for nearly an hour until Lyarra can feel that Sweetrobin has worn himself into a deep sleep. Lyarra wonders if its exhaustion from the excitement, or if the beat of Visērion’s wings has rocked the boy to sleep.

When they land, Robin wakes and Ned helps him and then Lyarra from the dragon. Petyr Baelish is waiting, with knights around him.

“Ah, Lord Baelish,” Lyarra says and Ned can tell he is nervous because Visērion is _huge_.

Robin moves to sit on his throne but then pulls Lyarra’s sleeve and offers her the seat instead. Lyarra smiles widely as she sits, motioning for Robin to sit on her knee. It seems she has made a friend in the Lord Paramount of the Vale, or at least, Visērion has made a friend. He moves around until he is comfortable, and then wraps his arms around her. Lyarra thinks Cersei would have pushed him down and through the moon door for gripping onto her as though she is her mother. But this is her cousins’ cousin, and though he is sickly, spoilt, and frail, he has recently lost his mother and half of the noble houses of the Vale are waiting for him to die so they can take his throne. He deserves at least a little empathy.

“My Queen,” Baelish says as he bows, “We have just begun preparations to travel to swear fealty in King’s Landing.”

“Have you?” Lyarra questions as she shifts her head to the side, “Then perhaps you might explain to me a few things,” she turns to Nestor Royce and his daughter Myranda, “Forgive me if I am incorrect, Lord Royce, but I had heard that the singer Marillion murdered my good-aunt? Pushed her through the moon door, I am told.”

“You are correct, Your Grace,” Nestor Royce says. There is a look in his eyes that suggests he does not like what he is saying. Nestor Royce is a solemn looking man, but he seems to be smart and resourceful.

“But you do not believe that, I suspect,” Lyarra replies shrewdly.

“I do not,” Royce confirms, “I have never, Your Grace.”

Lyarra turns to look at Baelish, “I suspect, and I believe that House Royce _also_ suspects that you are trying to take control of the Vale.” Lyarra knows better than to outright accuse Littlefinger of murder. She will allow the Knights of the Vale to make their own conclusions about the scheming of Lord Petyr Baelish.

“I am merely protecting the Vale so that Lord Robert is prepared to rule, Your Grace,” Baelish says kindly with a small smile on his face, “I worry that others will take advantage of him if he is without guidance.”

Lyarra wants to laugh at the look of indignation that her uncle is making now. Littlefinger, who held a knife to Ned’s throat as a kind father figure? That makes as much sense as Robert Baratheon believing Cersei’s children were his own. “Hmm. That is _quite_ kind of you, Lord Baelish, and quite out of character for a man who betrayed my uncle and framed him for treason.”

Baelish is backed into a corner now. Lyarra can see it in his eyes. Having Ned in the room staring Littlefinger down is enough to set him off kilter, which is why Lyarra brought him. “Your Grace, I was forced by the Lannisters. They threatened to kill Lysa, who I love deeply!”

Lyarra wonders if Littlefinger has told himself that lie so many times he has come to believe it, or if he is just such an accomplished liar that no one questions anything he says, “Yes a woman you loved so deeply you convinced her to poison her husband with the Tears of Lys and then tried to conspire to take her son’s rightful position as Lord Paramount of the Vale.”

The Knights are outraged at this, and are murmuring amongst themselves and looking at Baelish in disgust.

“He lies, Your Grace,” Ned says angrily, “He planned his treason from the beginning! He wanted to send the realm into chaos!”

Lyarra whispers into Sweetrobin’s ear and then the boy turns to Baelish, “Did _you_ make mother fly?”

“He did so much more than that, did he not?” Lyarra questions as she stroke’s Robert’s trembling back, “You tried to bankrupt the Vale, the Riverlands and the North. I know of your contact with the Iron Bank of Braavos. You see, Lord Baelish,” Lyarra says as she leans forward, “The bank is quite accommodating to those who pay their debts. And the Crown has no debt to the Iron Bank.”

Baelish swallows and she knows she has him. He looks nervous, and she realizes that his defenses at the Eryie were out of arrogance, and the belief that the dragons were as foolish as the lions and wolves. Clearly, he is quite incorrect. He might have been able to pit the Lannisters and Starks against one another, but the Targaryens will not bend to his games.

“Will you make him fly?” Robert asks eagerly now.

“I demand a trial by combat!” Baelish near shouts, pointing to a Knight of the Vale.

“Are you sure you would like to do that?” Lyarra muses at both Baelish and the Knight, “Visērion is hungry. She has not eaten since we left King’s Landing and has spent many hours flying. And I will name her my champion, as she is my truest friend and companion.”

The knight gulps and backs away. No one else comes forward. The Vale has abandoned Littlefinger, which is rightful in Lyarra’s eyes, since he had long ago abandoned them.

“It looks like you have no champion to name, Lord Baelish, which means you can have _no_ trial by combat. You will accompany my uncle Ned to King’s Landing gagging so you may not speak poison, where you will stand trial for your crimes in front of my husband and wife.”

“So he _won’t_ fly?” the young Paramount asks disappointedly.

“Not today, Sweetrobin. But, perhaps another,” she turns to the Knights, “Put Littlefinger in a cell. A ship of Unsullied will soon arrive to take him to King’s Landing with Lord Stark.”

She dines with Sweetrobin and Ned that afternoon, and Sweetrobin gives her a reluctant hug gripping her middle tightly. He’s a small boy, and though Arya comes near to her breasts when she clings to Lyarra, the little Lord of the Vale barely comes to her belly button, and has trouble putting his arms around her expanding waist. He mumbles a shy goodbye into her belly before he waves at Visērion and Lyarra flies back to King’s Landing as Ned and the Unsullied leave via ship.

* * *

Lady Catelyn Stark takes a ship from White Harbor, and she has no idea the dragon den she is walking into. Ned was commanded not to say anything about Lyarra at all, and though the news that three Targaryens have retaken the throne has spread across the Seven Kingdoms, Lyarra Snow has not been mentioned.

Catelyn appears before the Iron Throne, occupied only by Aegon who is sitting pensively on the throne in a dragon etched doublet. She sees Ned and Lyarra knows her uncle has not seen his wife since he escaped from the Black Cells. What a reunion this will be. Daenerys is off to the side, and Lyarra is half behind her with Arya but Lady Catelyn does not even spare her a glance.

“Arya!” Lady Stark cries, her arms open so she can embrace her child, “Sansa!”

Lyarra feels bitter again. Has her aunt even seen her? Or is she so used to pretending Lyarra doesn’t exist that she has forced her eyes not to see Lyarra and the crown upon her head?

Arya doesn’t move, but Sansa runs towards her mother and hugs her fiercely.

“Lady Catelyn Stark,” Aegon says, “Of Winterfell.”

“Your Grace,” she says courteously, if not apprehensively.

Ned does not look afraid, but he does look worried and that makes Catelyn anxious.

“As we discussed, Lord Stark,” Aegon commands.

Ned nods dutifully and turns to his wife, “Catelyn, I have not been honest with you. About Lya’s mother.”

Catelyn’s face contorts and _there it is_. Lyarra will never forget the displeased face that Lady Catelyn gave her every day of her whole life until she had escaped to be with Aegon and Daenerys. And now everyone else has seen it too. Robb is looking at his mother with new clarity, and Lyarra thinks she sees _something_ in Sansa’s eyes. Is it surprise? Or recognition? She does not know.

“Ashara Dayne,” Catelyn hisses hatefully. Lyarra finds this reprehensible, because Catelyn had never even _met_ Lady Ashara. All she knew was that at the tourney of Harrenhall, Ned and Ashara had shown mutual interest in each other. House Dayne’s newest squire was also named Ned, and when Catelyn had found this out she had raged around Winterfell for hours.

“For the sake of the Seven,” a Septa hisses from the side, “Your heart is still as ugly as your face, Cat.”

Catelyn takes a step back and begins to stutter, “A-As-”

“Yes, you fool,” Ashara says as she pulls off her disguise as a Septa Lemore, “Ned and I were _supposed_ to be married because we loved each other and would have done except for your power hungry father.”

 “You’re Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall!” Sansa excitedly says and Lyarra knows it’s both because of Ashara’s famed beauty and because of her famed knightly brother.

“You-”

“Ashara is not Lyarra’s mother, Cat,” Ned says firmly to stop the situation from spiraling out of control.

“The eyes!” Cat denies angrily but also hesitantly, “She has the violet eyes of house Dayne!”

“Aye,” Ned says, “Lya has violet eyes. But they are not the eyes of the Daynes of Starfall but of the Targaryens of Old Valyria.”

The room is silent, even though few are within its walls. The courtiers are there, all of which are allies with the Targaryens, and who know of this ‘secret’ already. They are waiting expectantly. All of the realm had heard of Ned Stark’s bastard, and all of the North had heard of Lady Catelyn’s efforts to stop Lyarra from ever wedding a worthy man or making a life for herself.

Ned continues, “Lyarra Snow was born Visenya Targaryen. She is my blood, Cat, as I told you many a time. But she is not my natural daughter. She is the trueborn daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and my sister Lyanna. I promised I would protect her.”

Catelyn takes an unsure step backwards, finally seeing Lyarra for the first time since she has stepped into the dragon’s lair and Lyarra tastes the sweetness of true revenge for the first time. Catelyn _really_ looks at her, sees her crown, sees her swollen belly and her face goes ashen. The terrified look on her face is as sweet as Sansa’s lemon cakes, and Lyarra is instantly ashamed for thinking that. Should she enjoy this as much as she does? Does that make her vengeful the way Aegon is vengeful? Does it even matter if she is angry about what occurred?

“So, you see, Lady Catelyn, while I commend my good-uncle for protecting my sister from the Usurper and his dogs, I cannot do the same for you. You shamed her, did you not? Scorned her? Taught your children to do the same?”

“Not me,” Arya cried out angrily at her mother, “Or Robb, or Bran or Rickon!” She glares at Sansa, “Just _Lady Sansa_!”

“Arya,” Lyarra hisses at her young cousin, “She is your older sister. You should treat her more kindly.” This animosity between Sansa and Arya needed to end. Perhaps Sansa was too fanciful sometimes, and it was true that the girls could not be more dissimilar. But Lyarra thinks that even if Rhaenys were her polar opposite, she would give anything to meet her sister, to have her alive again.

Arya looks unhappy at being chastised by her favorite cousin so she crosses her arms and settles for glowering silently at Sansa instead. The two have barely spoken since the Targaryens had taken the throne, even though their rooms were directly across from each other. Sansa spent most of her time hiding away with some of the ladies of court – namely Jeyne Westerling who was too kind to abandon Sansa as the other ladies had.

When the rest of the ladies saw that thought Sansa did not host Lyarra, and Lyarra and Daenerys had yet to host Sansa, their interest in her had faded entirely. They were like leeches, thinking they could gain Lyarra’s favor by having Sansa’s favor. Varys had told Lyarra that at least this time, Sansa had realized she was being used. It was a step in the right direction.

Lyarra thinks if the two sisters never make up, then the pack will never survive. Sansa is Arya’s sister, and one day Arya may regret pushing her away. Just like it seemed Sansa now regretted pushing Lyarra away. Hadn’t she once loved her sister? Hadn’t Sansa once followed Lyarra everywhere? Begged her for songs and stories?

“Your fault,” Arya ismumbling quietly as she scuffles her foot against the stone floor, “You told Cersei we were leaving and you almost got father executed and then Egg and Lya had to clean up your stupid mess. _But Sansa’s a lady_ ,” she mocks quietly and then huffs and goes silent when Lyarra gives her a quelling look.

“You will apologize,” Aegon says firmly to Lady Catelyn, “On your knees for how you have treated my wife. Come, sister,” Aegon says to her as he stands from the throne.

Lyarra pauses before starting to walk as confidently as she can towards him. He meets her at the bottom of the throne and takes a hand to walk her up. He had been protective before, but now that both she and Daenerys were pregnant he was even more protective, watching them both like hawks. He allows her to sit first and then follows. He rests one arm around her back and onto Lyarra’s belly and another on his knee as if waiting expectantly.

“It had better be a worthy apology, Lady Stark,” Aegon sharply states, “Or there _will_ be punishment.” The air chills at that, even though the heat of the dragon has returned to the Red Keep.

Ned swallows guiltily because he knows that this is partly his fault.

Catelyn gets to her knees at the bottom of the throne where Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold are looking at her without pity. In fact, Ser Arthur is looking at her as though he would rather run her through with Dawn if he had the chance.

“Lyar-”

“Your Grace,” Daenerys corrects from where she stands at the side of the throne with Arya, “She is your _better_.”

Catelyn gulps, “Your Grace. I offer you my sincerest apologies for your treatment at Winterfell.”

Aegon raises a silver brow, “You can do better than that, Lady Catelyn.”

“I-I am ashamed of how I treated you, and know now that I should have treated you as a mother would, as my good-sister and her husband would have wanted.”

“And?” Daenerys prompts with a scalding look in her eye as she turns towards Sansa pointedly.

“And I am regretful that I passed on my ill attitude towards Your Grace to my daughter, Sansa.”

Aegon looks at Lyarra, “Are you satisfied, my love?”

She’s not satisfied, and she probably won’t ever be. How can she be? When Lady Catelyn had shunned her? Had isolated her? Had tried to starve her? Had made her feel unwelcome in her own home? But Lyarra doesn’t want to do this anymore, doesn’t _want_ to be angry and resentful. Lyarra looks at Catelyn and the bravery that has been flowing through her since she gained her Crown flies forth in fire, “You were awful to me; it is true,” she says, “For no reason except that I was not your child. But I am a better woman, and a better wife, and I will be a better mother today because I have seen how not to parent a child by your example. Your apology is accepted in the same spirit it was given, Lady Catelyn, unwillingly and unhappily.”

Uncle Ned doesn’t visit her that night.

* * *

After the houses come to swear fealty to House Targaryen, all of the Starks but Ned, Arya and Sansa travel back North and Lyarra finally has the chance to become close to Sansa the way she had been when she was young.

She agonizes about whether or not she should try to become friendlier with her cousin for hours. Daenerys watches Lyarra pace back and forth across her solar, rubbing her belly and mumbling incoherently. Dany is very patient, but she’s tired of hearing Lyarra’s musings about Sansa because they’ve talked about it so many times that there’s nothing left for either of them to say.

“What is the worst that could happen, my love?” Daenerys finally asks, cutting off Lyarra’s rambling.

Lyarra stops and looks Dany in the eye, “She could tell me that I am a bastard whore and that all my children are children of bastards.”

Dany rolls her eyes and sighs, “She will not say that. If only because Sansa is not _that_ stupid. Maybe she will apologize for being such a cow. She was young, Lyarra. People change. _You_ have changed. And not just your name.”

Daenerys is right about that. Sansa is not the girl she was, and Lyarra is not the frightened girl she had been. She still wonders what she has done to gain Aegon, Daenerys, a Crown, and a child, but she accepts it now. She deserves it. She suffered to attain happiness, and damn it she will _have_ _happiness._ But Lyarra still looks green as she flops onto her bed, “I think I am just nervous,” she shifts slightly, “I keep thinking that there is something worse than what I thought.

“It will be fine. She will be here any minute,” Dany points out, standing from the bed and pulling Lyarra to her feet, “We should go to a more reasonable room to meet her than the place where I’ve just licked you two-”

“Dany,” Lyarra says sharply, “You are making me _more_ nervous.”

Daenerys rolls her eyes but accepts that Lyarra will always be squirrelly about their sexual activities in a way that neither Dany or Aegon are.

Sansa would be the first to arrive, a while before the others because Lyarra wanted to speak to her in private. They’ve barely spoken since Lyarra arrived. They had interacted only once, and it was Sansa’s swear of fealty, which was done more to Aegon than it was to Lyarra. When Ser Barristan announces Sansa’s arrival, the redhead is flushed as she cautiously enters Lyarra’s solar.

The servants pour tea and cut and serve slices of a large lemon cake that Sansa is eyeing particularly closely. Lyarra takes a sniff of it and waves it away, her stomach tumbling unhappily. Sansa looks at her and puts her fork back down because she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to eat if the Queen is not.

Lyarra notices this and quickly says, “You’re welcome to eat as much of it as you like. I know how you like them, Sansa. I like them too, but the baby hates lemons.”

Does Sansa even know that Lyarra likes lemon cakes? Does Sansa know anything about Lyarra at all?

It’s uncomfortable for several minutes and Lyarra thinks this is about how bad she thought it might go. Until Dany finally stands and excuses herself with a stern look at Lyarra.

When she leaves Sansa opens her mouth, “I am deeply sorry, Your Grace,” she stumbles unhappily, “I-I know that it does not mean much coming from me. But I’m a wretch for how I treated you. I should not have- I should have followed Arya’s example instead of my mother’s.”

Lyarra doesn’t know how to respond because she hasn't been truly angry with Sansa for a very long time. Sad that she had lost her sister, unhappy that her sibling hated her, but not angry.

“I forgave you long ago,” Lyarra finally says, “You were a child.”

Sansa sniffles then, “I listened to everything Septa Mordane and Mother said about b-bastards and about how h-having you at Winterfell meant I would never marry a Prince or a Knight or a Lord with a castle.”

Lyarra takes in a sharp breath, because although she knew that her poor treatment had come from the Septa and Lady Catelyn, to hear it aloud is something she never dreamed. It also explained why Lady Catelyn had done everything to make sure visiting Lords did not let their sons meet the Bastard of Winterfell.

“And I know it is not true. You never wanted to do anything but be kind to me and-. You always took care of us when we were little, and you spent more time with Rickon than mother did. But I swear I am not apologizing because I did not know you-you were a Targaryen. I swear it! I just know I did wrong by you and I- I am ashamed.”

“I only ever wanted to be sisters,” Lyarra says finally with sadness in her eyes, “And it killed me when you would speak to me no longer. You used to follow me everywhere, and you always snuck to my room to sleep beside me until one day you did not,” Lyarra hiccups slightly, tears welling in her eyes, “And the things you said-”

To her absolute horror, Sansa is sobbing now, “I know. I know! Do you know that I know? I said – awful things. And mother – she thought you had dishonored yourself and run away with a boy and I believed her and Jeyne-”

_Oh Sansa_ , Lyarra thinks, _she is still too innocent for this world._

“But I know now,” Sansa cries out finally, “She taught me. They both did.”

Lyarra frowns, “What did Lady Stark teach you?”

“No,” Sansa corrects miserably, “Queen Cersei and Joffrey. They taught me that names do no matter. A Prince can be from the Seven Hells, and being queen means nothing if you have no one to share it with. She was- so angry _all the time_ , and she never quelled Joffrey’s thirst for blood. She just let him hurt me. And when I-” Sansa looks around and lowers her voice, “flowered, she married me to Tyrion Lannister. It was annulled but-”

_Ah_ , Lyarra realizes. Sansa had learned lessons she hadn’t even realized that she had learned. The Sansa she had known loved songs, and knights, and romance. She believed that the world was good, and right. She thought that she might marry a prince, become queen, and be beautiful. She didn’t realize that the world was not good and right, and that being a prince did not mean that a man was worthy. She didn’t realize that queens must watch for knives in their backs.

And perhaps Sansa didn’t realize she still carried the knife that Queen Cersei had pushed in her own back. For though she is a monster for other reasons, Cersei had forced Sansa to grow up, had forced her to see the worst in people when she was still a child. It was a betrayal of its own.

Lyarra smiles softly as she pushes her weight from the chair to stand. Sansa darts up and Lyarra reaches over to pull her red headed cousin into her embrace.

“I love you, Sansa,” Lyarra says meaningfully, “Even if you were mean when we were children. We are family. Blood protects blood. I will always protect you.”

Sansa hugs Lyarra tightly, just as she had done when they were young, before Sansa understood that her older sister was not her mother’s child. The baby kicks hard and Sansa steps back in amazement.

“Does that happen often, Your Grace?” she questions, staring so hard that Lyarra is keenly aware that she looks something akin to a puffer fish in her silken gown. The neckline is far deeper than she would like, but Aegon finds himself mesmerized with the silken style of dress from Highgarden and her swelling breasts.

“Just call me Lyarra, Sansa. We are cousins. Yes, it happens frequently.” Before they can continue all of the ladies they invited for tea and cake arrive. Jeyne Westerling arrives first, followed closely by Alysanne Velaryon and Caenys Celtigar. Daenerys returns with another retinue consisting of Wynyfred Manderly, Elinor Tyrell, and Roslin Tully. Lyarra had accepted Roslin to keep an eye on her, since the girl had been part of the house that ad betrayed her mother’s family brutally. But it seemed Roslin had no interest in her Frey heritage, and was doing everything she could to distance herself from the betraying Freys. In total there are sixty-two ladies in the Red Keep, all tending to Lyarra and Daenerys and truly Lyarra barely remembers all of their names.

“Is she kicking again?” Dany asked as she pressed her hands to her niece’s belly.

“Aye,” Lyarra says as she puts hers to Dany’s, “Is she?”

Sansa’s eyes are as wide as saucers and then she shyly asks, “Can I feel?”

Lyarra takes her hand and puts it where she felt the last kick. There’s nothing but stillness in her belly until Lyarra finally says, “Try speaking to her. She likes being talked to.”

Sansa bends slightly, “Hello, Princess. I’m your cousin, Sansa. Uncle Ned’s daughter.” She’s rewarded with a kick that lights her eyes up in excitement.

Lyarra thinks maybe they’re half way to mending their relationship when she goes to bed by Aegon’s side.

Daenerys tells Aegon all about it, and though he’s spent hours holding court, Aegon listens carefully and attentively. “Then why not ask her to stay, my love?” he finally says, “Mayhaps you will have as good a relationship with Sansa as you do Arya.”

“Just so,” Dany agrees, “A good relationship, but not the same kind. Perhaps you can ask Sansa to teach you to embroider. I’ve heard she is unrivaled with a needle.”

“I know how to embroider now,” Lyarra says in confusion, “Lady Ashara taught me in Lys.”

Dany rolls her eyes, “Do you have no mind for machinations, niece? Asking her to teach you would let you spend more time together. Also, your embroidery skills are not much better than mine.”

Lyarra opens her mouth in protest, “But you cannot use a needle at all.”

Aegon looks between the two who are verbally sparring from either side of him. They’re talking over him and Aegon wonders again how it is that Daenerys and Lyarra seem to be so attracted to one another when they are so very different.

“Mayhaps I cannot but I _know_ I cannot,” Dany points out, “I have no interest in learning to use the needle.”

“I made many beautiful gowns when we lived in Myr,” Lyarra glares back imperiously, “You said you liked the ones I made for you. I made the nightgown you wear now!”

Dany huffs, “They are not the same as embroidery, sister-wife. I am indeed more than pleased with the gowns you make, but your embroidery _could_ improve.”

“Would you two cease your quarrelling?” Aegon finally cuts in before the two women can argue anymore, “Lyarra, there is always room for improvement in everything we do. Dany, perhaps you should not poke at Lyarra’s confidence. You both need to behave, or you’ll get along less than Visenya and Rhaenys.”

Lyarra gasps in horror, “I love Dany. We could never be like Visenya and Rhaenys.”

Dany nods, taking Lyarra’s hand from across Aegon’s chest, “As I love Lyarra,” she then looks at her nephew frankly, “If we should both outlive you we would still be lovers in the bedchamber.”

Lyarra groans and covers her face with her free hand as Aegon growls and begins to remove his small clothes. “You would not miss me in the slightest, aunt?” he replies.

“ _I_ would miss you, Egg,” Lyarra says with a sweet smile, ever the pleaser of their group.

“I may miss your cock and your wit,” Daenerys says bluntly, “But in Lys they make wooden ones that are not attached to a man and therefore a woman may get the best parts of the man without the worst.”

Lyarra wants to shut Dany up because although she knows that the two are too alike and too similar to ever be as close as Lyarra is to Dany or Aegon, they do care for one another deeply. Dany had told her she felt love for Aegon, and Aegon had said the same. But it was not as intense as the love they felt when all three of them were together, as though they could only be happy if the three of them had each other.

They are all three so different just as the dragons they ride. Lyarra is the kind one, consumed with thoughts of honor and duty, gentle like Visērion with no true desire for blood save for the occasional act of vengeance. Daenerys is wild; sexually and politically aggressive, perhaps even too angry sometimes similar to Drogon who thirsts for blood on the battlefield. Aegon is mild mannered, but stern, and unyielding to those he does not care for; he is moderate, like Rhaegal who can lead but prefers to accompany. Aegon could rule alone, and would even be an efficient ruler alone, but he pressures Lyarra’s soft heart to be firmer and quells Daenerys’s righteous thirst for blood.

The dragon has three heads, and they work by feeding from one another.

When they stop arguing, Aegon kisses Dany lightly on the lips, and then shifts his weight so that he can pull her atop him. She breaks her lips from his and then puts her weight on her arms so she can move to sit on his cock. They both let out a gasp when they are connected and Lyarra can’t help but realize she is not at all jealous of either of her lovers together. They are all made to be together. They are meant to be three.

Dany may ride Aegon but she is looking Lyarra in the eyes as she does it. Her fingers are grasping, shifting so she might take Lyarra’s hand back in her own. Lyarra knows Dany cannot be quenched by Aegon alone. She may love him, and she may enjoy fucking him but just as all three know Dany is the leader of their reign, Lyarra is the focus of their love. Lyarra is the mortar that holds Dany and Aegon together, who are in lust and in love but their love is difference.

Lyarra knows exactly what Dany wants, because she is grinding her slit against Aegon while she rides him. So she sits up and moves closer because she can no longer watch. She must participate. And she first puts her fingers to Dany’s nipples. They’re brown now, not the soft rose they had been before, and they are so hard that when Lyarra pinches one, she thinks perhaps Dany can’t feel it at all until she lets out a moan of pleasure-pain. Aegon turns his head to capture his lips in her own and one of his hands leaves Dany’s hips to sneak between Lyarra’s thighs.

She spreads her legs for his fingers so fast Aegon snickers into their kiss. When his fingers are fully in her she gasps and clutches Dany tighter which makes Dany squeal and lean closer to where Aegon and Lyarra lay. She pulls on Aegon suddenly and urges him to sit up and then turns over to present her back to him as she is on all fours above Lyarra. He thrusts back into her and Lyarra can barely breathe because Dany is kissing her so hard, and her fingers-gods- her fingers. Dany is a god with her fingers, and she had once revealed she had learned all she knew from a Lyseni pleasure slave. It makes Lyarra blush to think about it.

Her face is turning red, and her chest is aching now because she wants to orgasm. Aegon is close, she can tell, because he’s pumping into Dany erratically and his eyes are starting to roll back into his head the way he does before he spills into her. Dany urges Lyarra to move up and her tongue replaces her fingers in only moments. Lyarra has her fingers threaded through Dany’s hair, pulling on her harder and harder because-

She cries out loudly when she reaches the cliff she had been climbing. It’s a band releasing at her core, and there’s a rush and liquid everywhere and Lyarra almost can’t enjoy the bliss because she thinks perhaps she might have made water on Dany. “I am so sor-” she begins but Dany just kisses her and Lyarra tastes only herself on her lips as Dany falls to the side in exhaustion, and Aegon lies down behind her.

Lyarra takes several heavy breaths, trying to calm herself. Her heart is racing, but she is slowly relaxing and she is looking into Dany’s eyes. She can’t help but remember why she loves both of them so much and soon her eyes are closed and they are just three lovers enjoying the afterglow of evening bliss.

* * *

Oberyn takes his justice for Elia Martell brutally. He knows he cannot defeat the Mountain Who Rides in single combat, but Drogon can. It’s almost a boring encounter because Drogon chars the Mountain and then swallows him whole, burping up a small chunk of his armor. But Oberyn enjoys it nonetheless, because all he has wanted since word got out about his sister was to see the Mountain _burn_.

The Lannisters are almost entirely eradicated as soon as the Targaryens hold King’s Landing. Jaime, Tyrion, Myrcella and Tommen are the only members of the main branch of the house to survive the destruction of the Lannisters. Out of deference to Dorne Myrcella is sent to become a Silent Sister, and he and the Small Council decide to send Tommen to take the Black. Daenerys wants Jaime dead but the three dragons change their mind when they find out the circumstances which led to the death of the Mad King. In the end, the group decide to allow him to keep his white cloak on the condition that Ser Barristan take back his position as Commander of the kingsguard, an act which shocks many members of the kingdom.

None of them trust him, truly, but after hearing the promise he had made to return Sansa and Arya, and the regret he felt over his actions, Lyarra is willing to let the past stay in the past. “I promised your father I would take care of Elia and Rhaenys and I failed. But I will make it right,” he says, “I will make it right.”

All the while, Lyarra’s belly becomes heavier and heavier and Lyarra begins to suspect there are two babes rather than one because Daenerys, while plump is far smaller than she. Catelyn has returned to Winterfell to tend to Bran and Rickon, who had been found hiding far North, dangerously close to the Wall. Ned also desires to return, probably to see his wife and children and take up his duties again, but in an act of bravery Lyarra shyly requests that he might stay until her child is born.

“She’s a daughter,” Lyarra says, proudly, “Aegon and I have both dreamt having a girl.”

Ned says nothing negative about her marriage to Aegon, having accepted long ago the practices of the Targaryens, but he does eventually question her when she is only a turn from birth.

“He did not force you?” Ned questions warily, “You chose to be with him? And… Queen Daenerys?”

It rankles on Lyarra a bit to have Ned question her this way, “Do you believe that only a man who was forced to marry me would have me? If I could not secure a husband, it is because your lady wife refused to teach me to be a lady.” When it comes from her mouth, Lyarra can’t help but realize that she’s still angry. She’s still bitter about what’s happened even if she thought she had forgotten the pain of her childhood in Winterfell and moved past it all. She thought the past didn't hurt anymore. But here it is again, an aching wound that hasn’t healed in the last three years. She thought she was past this. She thought that she had let her anger go since she had screeched at Robb.

Ned looks horrified, as though he cannot believe Lyarra thinks him capable of such ill thoughts about her, “No, Lya-Visenya. Of course not. I ask only to make sure you are safe. And happy. As your mother wanted.”

That softens Lyarra’s heart and then she hugs him, her belly stopping her from hugging him as tightly as she wanted, “Thank you, nuncle,” she whispers, “You of anyone can call me Lyarra. You are still my father,” she giggles then, “Even if you irritate me sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” Ned cries as he hugs her tighter, “I should have told Cat. I should have stopped her from doing as she did. I am craven for what I did. I should have fought for you more. I failed your mother, failed my promise and brought the wrath of the Old Gods upon our house.”

“No!” Lyarra says as she pats her uncle’s greying whiskers affectionately, “You did not fail her at all. I was safe, and happy. I could have been dead. You both made mistakes,” Lyarra says, and as she says it she realizes she finally doesn’t blame her uncle anymore. She won’t be angry at him anymore, “And now I have Aegon. And Daenerys. We love each other, uncle Ned, all of us. And perhaps we wouldn’t have each other if things had been different.”

Ned looks unsure and Lyarra finally reaches over and hugs her surrogate father tightly, “Uncle Ned, mother trusted you because she knew you. Not Uncle Benjen, not Uncle Brandon, _you_. Because she knew you were honorable, and that family comes first.”

And aren’t those words amazing coming from her? From she who had been so angry that Ned had chosen Robert over Lyanna. She who had angrily confronted Robb in her vicious anger. But it is different now. This child changes things, changes everything. She knows now the decision that her mother had had to make, and the decision that her uncle had had to make in turn. She forgave him long ago, she realizes. She forgives him. She was done being angry. It made her tired, and weak. _Love makes us strong_ , Lyarra thinks, _all hate does is hurt._

The baby is doing somersaults in her belly and although Ned has five children by Lady Catelyn, this baby is special. She is Lyanna’s granddaughter. And Ned will be damned if his niece passes the way that his sister did all those years ago. So he stays in King’s Landing, to make sure that his niece survives when her mother did not.

Little Elyanna is born only a week and half later, a smidge too early. They sit as three upon the throne, and they are holding court. Lyarra does not particularly enjoy holding court but it is something that Dany is quite passionate about. Aegon does it for duty, but Dany would hold court all day if she could. She _loves_ it; loves to right the wrongs done to those who cannot get justice on their own behalf.

Her back has been aching all morning, and the cushion she had finally caved and asked for many moons before does little to dull her discomfort on the cold steel of the Iron Throne. The common folk are coming in droves, just as they had been doing for months. Joffrey had neglected them tremendously, and some of the smallfolk are airing grievances from many moons prior. Most of them are simple. A farmer comes with the bones of his sheep to ask for compensation since the dragons have eaten them, which they grant. A merchant accuses another of stealing his business by slandering him to any who listen, and Mace Tyrell requests the death of Walder Frey and his many heirs for trying to murder his daughter and good-son at the Crossings two year prior.

That one takes them hours to decide, as Lyarra wants the Freys dead for betraying Robb, and even wants the entire male line wiped out. It’s one of the rare times in which her thirst for blood appears, and Aegon is so amazed by it that Daenerys smiles winningly while promising that the treacherous Freys would serve justice for breaking guest right and betraying their liege lord for the Lannisters of Casterly Rock.

In the end, Aegon quells them both, reasoning that killing the entire house will make them look no better than King Aerys. It is he who decides that they should all be sent to take the Black. Lyarra argues for Walder Frey’s head, and Daenerys, having heard the tale from Arya, demands that those who had directly injured Robb, Margaery (and begrudgingly), Lady Catelyn to be sent to the North to stand punishment from Ned Stark and the Northern houses they had betrayed.

Arya looks disappointed that they have decided that the Freys will be forced to take the Black, and Lyarra wonders if the Freys were on her list, if she had planned to murder them herself. The thought chills her inside, because though she accepts Arya for who she is, she wonders if she will ever be a child again.

They are listening to a morbid tale from an inn-keeper, who claims that a vagabond snatched his most comely daughter, every last one of his silver stags and then left her in the woods, where she was found pregnant and starving, having eaten her own fingers. The Queens are horrified, and Lyarra in particular is disturbed by the idea of a kidnapping. They order that the man be found and questioned and as the man is escorted out, Lyarra shifts in her seat and asks Ser Barristan for a cup of hot tea with a slice of orange. It’s the only thing that quells the back aches, recently. As he moves to grant her request, Lyarra cries out suddenly and grips her husband’s shoulder as she doubles over on the throne

Daenerys is terrified, no doubt thinking back to the pain of losing Rhaego, “What-”

Lyarra cuts her off with an agonized wail and Aegon calls for the Maester. He picks up Lyarra in a swoop and carefully begins to carry her down the steps of the Iron Throne. Her arms around wrapped tight around his neck, and only when Ser Jaime’s face goes ashen does her notice that there is blood dripping from Lyarra’s ankles.

Aegon is terrified now, in a way that he wasn’t before. He had known childbirth was dangerous business. After all, had not his sister’s mother died in the same bed her daughter was born in? His own mother had nearly died having him, and his grandmother had died birthing Daenerys. But it’s never felt this real, or this frightening. He’d had visions of his child, and he’s grown too confident that they would cradle a Princess. But he knows never to trust prophecy. Daenerys’ first son was evidence of that.

“Visenya,” he calls to her, as her eyelids are fluttering. He, Dany, the maesters, and his sister’s Northern family are rushing towards their solar at high speed.

Lyarra smiles at him and Aegon thinks she looks unsure, as though she doesn’t believe what she is about to say, “I will be fine. We’re going to be fine.”

Aegon wants to believe her, wants to agree with what his wife is saying. But as his hands get wetter and wetter, he isn’t sure he believes a word she says. The moment she is on the bed he is forced out of the chambers, along with Daenerys and Ned.

“How dare you!” Dany rages from outside the door, “You do not command me!”

“Please, Your Grace,” one of the nursemaids says, “Your presence may cause stress for both you and your children, and Her Grace.”

Dany begrudgingly agrees because she already feels sick thinking about what could be wrong with Lyarra, so she sits outside of the chamber with Aegon and Ned for hours. They are all sitting in silent vigil until Aegon finally breaks the silence.

“Is it always this…” Aegon begins.

“Frightening?” Ned questions. Because doesn’t he know? Hasn’t he done this five times? Hadn’t he watch the light die from Lyanna’s eyes?

Aegon hesitates but then nods.

“Aye. My lady wife near died after Arya was born. And Lyanna,” he says it with such pain that Aegon does pity him for a moment.

Aegon will never love Ned the way that Lyarra loves Ned but he understands his pain because though has no memory of Lyanna he knows of her kind face from the visions he had of the past. He knows what it is like to lose a sister, and he has no want to lose another; to lose both his sister and their child in one fell swoop.

Lyarra lives now, even though Lyanna did not, and when they open the door to the chambers, she is smiling so proudly at not one but two sleeping children that Ned begins to tear up.

“We were right,” she says to Daenerys, “Twins!”

Aegon holds his new daughter first, and then Daenerys, who hands their son to Ned. Ned cries when he holds them both for the first time because they look like Lyanna, “She looks like you, too,” Ned whispers as he kisses his great niece on the forehead. He can also see Aegon in Elyanna. She has Aegon’s eyes and nose, but she has Lyanna’s long face, and Rhaegar’s jaw and silver gold hair. And her skin is just tan enough to take on the warmer tone of Elia Martell. Rhaegaron and she are almost identical, except that his hair is slightly darker and his lips lightly fuller. Once Ned knows both mother and children are safe he plants a soft kiss on Lyarra’s cheek and sets off for Winterfell.

Princess Rhaella is born only a fortnight later, and looks almost identical to Daenerys. The Valyrian blood runs strong in her veins, and they name her in honor the woman that none of them had ever met. When she is born, Rhaella, Dany’s daughter is the spitting image of her mother, with slightly deeper skin, inherited from the Rhoynish blood of the Martells of Sunspear.

“We’ve an heir,” Aegon coos as he holds his newest child in his arms, “And two sisters to wife.”

Daenerys and Lyarra both smile because they agreed long ago that they would never fight over the throne. Lyarra is terrified that she is as cursed as the first Visenya was cursed, that she will grow to hate Aegon and that their children will die.

Daenerys assures her this will not be the case. They are not their namesakes. Daenerys is not the woman who Daemon started a rebellion over, and Lyarra is not the sister that Aegon married out of obligation. “We are not our namesakes,” she tells Lyarra firmly.

“They will be blessed,” Aegon says as he kisses Lyarra’s head, “As we are blessed. Rhaegaron will be blessed as I am blessed. There is no stronger love than that that comes from family.”

* * *

“She’s been so moody,” Lyarra says to Daenerys as she pets Visērion’s snout, “She started a fight with Rhaegal yesterday for no reason at all. She started acting up right before I went to the Vale.”

Visērion huffs and then curls up tight on the sandy beach when Lyarra moves her hand away, “Visērion, issa ao ill?”

Visērion just whines and then rolls to her side to be pet on the belly. It’s an odd position, given the fact that she has spikes on her back that must make her uncomfortable but she is swishing her tail aching to be pet.

“What in the gods names,” Lyarra grumbles as she kneels and begins to give her dragon belly rubs. Her dragon is demanding on a good day, and now that she is in a mood, she has wanted more attention. It’s as though she has a pet lizard instead of a ferocious dragon for a companion, “I expect this from Ghost because she is ridiculous, and now I have got to pet you endlessly too? I only have two hands, Visērion! You’re going to make her je-” Lyarra’s hand comes to a stop and she rubs the same area again, more firmly this time, “Dany! Dany! Look!”

Her aunt comes closer, and Lyarra puts her wife’s hand to Visērion’s belly. Dany has an astonished look on her face, pressing both hands to Visērion cream colored scales.

“Is that-”

“She’s laying a clutch of eggs! We need to tell Egg!” Lyarra leaps to Visērion’s other side and hugs her tightly, kissing her all over her warm snout, “Thank you, my friend. You are bringing the dragons back to this world!”

Visērion preens under the attention because she loves to have her snout petted, her belly rubbed, and behind her ears scratched, and then eventually she flops back over to take a long-awaited nap while Rhaegal and Drogon fly above.

* * *

“Winter is coming,” Ned says gravely, as he observes the snow fall beyond Winterfell beside Benjen.

“And the dead come with it,” Benjen replies without emotion, “The Watch cannot seek to defeat the Walkers alone, brother. You know this. We must send for aid from King’s Landing.”

“Aye,” Ned agrees, “But you must bring them proof. Lyarra will believe you, but King Aegon and Queen Daenerys are not of this place. They do not know the North.”

“I’ll gather the free folk,” Benjen finally says, “And we will bring back a full wight this time. Maester Aemon sent a box, with a hand before to the Lannisters. But we had no response.”

Ned pauses, “Maester Aemon… Targaryen?”

“Aye,” Benjen begins, “Brother of Aegon the Unlikely. Few at the Wall know he was once a Prince.”

“Send him with the wight,” Ned finally says decisively, “The King and Queens will be happy to see him. Can you be at White Harbor with evidence of the walkers within a turn?”

Benjen pauses, “If we send a raven to Castle Black to send for Aemon, and I board a ship from East Watch south, I may be able to make it. If you do not hear from me within a sennight, presume me dead beyond the Wall.”

Ned grimaces, because he hates the thought of Benjen dying beyond the Wall. Another Stark cannot die. They have lost enough of their family for a lifetime.

Once again, Ned is reminded by the strange behavior of Bran after he had returned from North of the Wall. Bran had spent a very long time there, with Hodor, Osha, and Jojen and Meera Reed. Only Meera, Osha, and Bran had returned. And Bran was not right when he returned, as though he left a part of himself beyond the Wall, “I will send a raven to Castle Black and a rider to Lord Manderly to expect you and to have a ship ready for you to travel to King’s Landing.”

“I will leave on the morrow, then,” Benjen says, “And hope I see Lya again.”

* * *

Aegon is fucking both of his wives into their bed when Jorah Mormont announces the Benjen Stark has come for an audience with Queen Lyarra. Lyarra sits up immediately, pushing Aegon off of her and onto Dany instead. Dany takes him readily, and Lyarra wonders if either of her partners have realized that Ser Jorah is waiting at the door for them. Dany gives her a look and Lyarra realizes that both Aegon and Dany have heard Ser Jorah but have chosen to finish before answering the summons.

“Uncle Benjen?” she murmurs, rushing to bathe as quickly as possible so she doesn’t smell of sex and sweat, “What in the…” She throws her hair into quick Northern style braids, batting away the ladies maids, and pulls on a gown that was just warm enough to keep out the cold that is settling in King’s Landing.

Her uncle looks the same as ever, and he and several other men in furs are carrying a wooden box.

“What is this?” Aegon questions as he enters the hall, “A delayed gift for the birth of the Crown Prince and Princess from their dear Uncle Benjen?”

“I wish it were so, Your Grace,” Benjen replies dutifully, “I’m here on behalf of the Night’s Watch. With Maester Aemon Targaryen. I do have gifts for my nieces and nephew, but they are not within this crate.”

Aegon’s eyes shoot towards the elderly man with whitened eyes and a long chain. The man reaches his hands out, “I am overjoyed to be in the presence of family once again, Your Grace. But I am no longer young, and my eyes do not work. May I meet you properly?” he questions, and Daenerys takes his hand tightly before placing it to her face, and then to her slightly swollen belly. Dany had fallen pregnant almost immediately after Rhaella was born. The children were only a year old and Dany would be a mother again within six turns.

But Uncle Aemon is so happy to see them. His eyes are shone with tears as Lyarra hugs him tightly. She does not know him, yet, but he is no less her uncle, “It is not just us, Uncle Aemon,” she says happily, “We’ve three children, soon four. Would you like to meet them?”

Benjen cuts in quickly, “Pardon me, Your Grace. But there is something within this box that is not for the eyes of the children. Mayhaps you should see this before you fetch the children.”

Grey Worm’s eyes narrow and Benjen hastily corrects himself, “I mean my niece and her family no harm,” he pauses, “You know the legends of the Others and the Long Night?”

Daenerys looks puzzled, “Of course. When I lived in Volantis they preached about it every day.”

“It is no legend,” Benjen says bluntly to a room of disbelieving silence, “And I have evidence in this box. They are coming closer to the Wall, each day, Your Graces, and with them they bring the dead. They have an army of fifty thousand wights and Walkers that are near impossible to kill, and the Watch has not the resources to win this War for the Dawn alone. We are undermanned and underprepared.”

They move towards the dragon pit, and Benjen encourages them to stay a safe distance from the box.

What they see causes Dany to scream as she steps back. It’s running straight at them and Aegon pushes Lyarra behind him, next to Daenerys. They are all three shaken, and Aegon is ready to draw Blackfyre before the beast is stopped in his tracks with a chain. Benjen shows them how to kill the wight and they are left in stunned silence.

“You want my children,” Daenerys says perceptively. She is a shrewd woman, and she knows what is being asked of her.

Lyarra grips Daenerys arm tightly, “No, they cannot, Dany,” she says, “Visērion is sweet, and good, and she does not like to fight. She is not-”

“Drogon thirsts for blood while Visērion is calm in her manner,” Daenerys interjects, “But this is folly. Dragons are not invincible. Queen Rhaenys taught us that.”

“We cannot rule over a graveyard,” Aegon points out, “And the dragons would be effective to destroy the wight army if they are susceptible to fire.”

“Do they swim?” Aurane Waters demands from where he stands next to his father, the Master of Ships, “Can they come by sea to the South?”

Benjen pauses before shaking his head, “No. They do not swim.”

“It matters not,” Aegon says unhappily, “If the Shivering Sea or the Bay of Seals freezes they will walk across the ice and around the Wall.”

Lyanna pauses, “But if they don’t swim, could we drown them? Could we melt the ice with the dragons and then the water will freeze over them?”

Benjen tilts his head to the side, “Mayhaps. But that would not truly solve the problem. They would just be at the bottom of the ocean and then they would eventually walk to shore because they do not need to breathe. It might take them years after sinking, but they would eventually reach shore.”

“And then in another eight thousand years, the Long Night might be upon us again,” Aegon surmises with a hard sigh.

“I must say,” Benjen says, “That I am surprised it did not take more to convince you of this threat. We were afraid of being turned away.”

Aegon shakes his head and looks to Lyarra, “My father married Lyanna because he believed the Long Night was coming and that the dragon would need to have three heads and three riders. A woodswitch told our great-grandfather Jaehaerys that the Prince Who was Promised would come from their line.”

Lyarra takes a sharp breath because hadn’t she heard of this prophecy? And hadn’t Missandei corrected her translation of the story? Could Aegon be the Prince Who was Promised? Or perhaps it is Dany? She thinks it cannot be her, could _never_ be her.

“What if you lose the dragons, My Queen?” questions Ser Jorah as the room recovers, “You might lose one of your children.”

Lyarra puts a hand to her belly because the thought of losing Visērion is like the though of losign Elyanna and Rhaegaron and she locks eyes with Daenerys who is looking at Jorah with hard, calculating eyes, “What ruler would leave their people alone in a moment of darkness?” she demands.

Aegon nods, “Yes. I will lead a host to the North and we will defeat this enemy.”

Lyarra spins to look at him in horror, “You cannot mean to go alone! The dragons are more controlled when they each have a rider. You cannot-”

“Neither of you can go,” Aegon inturrupts “Daenerys is with child. And if either of you should fall-”

“We won’t fall,” Lyarra argues heatedly, “We have armor. Visērion would _never_ let me fall. Drogon would never let Dany fall!” Lyarra is aware that they are now arguing in front of those sworn to them, and they had promised never to show weakness to those they led. But here they are, fractured and fighting.

“And if you are felled the way Rhaenys was?” Aegon demands, “Dragons are _not_ invincible, and we are targets when we ride them. All can see us, and we cannot hide from our enemies when we are atop our mounts.”

“You are both correct,” Dany finally says, stopping the siblings from arguing, “We are targets when we ride. But we cannot leave our people. We will all go North.” She says it with such finality that Aegon seems to deflate.

“And if someone Usurps the throne while we are gone?” Aegon demands.

“Leave the Martells to rule with the Small Council in our absence,” Lyarra pleads, “Oberyn would never take our throne. He loves Elia too much to do so.”

“And if we lose, we all die anyway and there’s no throne left to rule anyway” Dany says, “So does it really matter.”

Lyarra glares at her because Dany needs to learn to not say the worst thing at the worst possible time.

“What?” Dany demands, “You are too optimistic and Aegon has the mistaken belief that if he says something will be such it will just happen. I am not wrong for pointing out we may all die. I am being cautiously realistic. We must know that if we lose it is the end of us all.”

“We must go North,” Aegon says, choosing to ignore Daenerys’ barbed comment about his need for complete control, “We must call the Southern banners and head North,” he calls for Jon who is Hand to the Throne, “Send ravens to all of the Wardens that they must call the banners and tell them we must protect against a threat North of the wall. They will think it is Wildlings, and we will let them, for now.”

Lyarra calls for Benjen, “Do you have another one of those wheats?”

“Wights,” Benjen corrects hastily, “And yes. We brought half a dozen, just in case.”

“We do not have the time to do what you are thinking, Visenya,” Dany says perceptively, “You want to send them to the Kingdoms so they know what they are up against.”

“If we neglect to tell them what they’re fighting, they will be prepared,” Lyarra points out, “Especially in the warmer regions where they do not know of the cold the way the North does.

“If they do know, they may desert,” Benjen replies, “Plenty of men have deserted the Wall out of fear of what they saw beyond it.”

“We do not need to tell them what they are fighting against,” Dany says fiercely, “They should fight because the Crown demands it.” This is the only trait about Dany that frustrates Lyarra. She expects the same unwavering loyalty of Westeros that she had gained from the Dothraki and the Unsullied. But the men of the Seven Kingdoms are not all seasoned warriors, and they do not know the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons the way that her Essosi forces do. Daenerys is arrogant, and she is a dragon, and that is one of the things that makes her the most attractive to Lyarra. But sometimes Lyarra wishes Daenerys were more humble.

“Aye,” Lyarra says trying to make Dany understand, “But they deserve the chance to say goodbye to their families. They do not know that they may never return from this battle, Dany. They deserve the chance to say goodbye.”

“They will just assume it's a host of free folk,” Benjen hastens to agree with his niece, “If they are fighting to see their families again they may fight harder.”

“Fine,” Dany says, giving in to the pleas from her wife, “Send representatives of the wall with the wights to the other kingdoms. You will do so _speedily_ and will divide your forces to do so,” she says testily, “Lyarra and I will travel to Dragonstone to survey the dragonglass and oversee shipments of it to White Harbor as the Watch has requested.”

Aegon turns to Jon, who is waiting so he knows what messages to send to each house, “Tell the Wardens that a representative comes with vital news of danger North of the Wall. Tell them they must call the banners and provide a host of men who are. And, tell the Reach to be ready to supply provisions and to start a supply line from the South so that we can feed the armies in the North.”

He turns to Ser Arthur, “What host could we muster if all of the Kingdoms give their able-bodied men?”

“How many wildlings are willing to fight?” Arthur asks Benjen in turn.

“They have one hundred thousand strong men and women. They’re at the Gift, now as the Lord Commander has let them past the wall, and they are preparing for battle.”

“Then perhaps a host of two hundred fifty thousand,” Arthur says, “Since the War of Five Kings killed many able-bodied men and knights. If we count the Dothraki and the Unsullied that is another seventy-five thousand. We could have a host of three hundred and twenty-five thousand strong.”

“That’s six to one,” Lyarra says, “But numbers do not win battles. Strategy does.” And the Others have this battle to their advantage. It is easy to slay a human who has no way to fight, especially for the creatures of ice.

“And we do not have three hundred thousand weapons of Valyrian steel and Dragonglass to arm them,” Dany says, “A Dothraki screamer can only destroy if he has the weapons he needs.”

“Do we even have that much dragonglass?” Lyarra asks, “It’s plentiful on Dragonstone, but enough for that many weapons? We have very little Valyrian steel as is. I can think of only a hundred blades in Westeros that could even be used in battle.”

Aurane Waters steps forward, “I am sorry to interrupt, Your Grace. But I know how we may procure Valyrian steel.”

“And how might that be?” Dany asks with a fine brow raised at the Bastard of Driftmark, “The method is lost to us. Those who venture to Old Valyria in search of lost relics never return. None know how they created such fine swords.”

“Valyrian steel can be reforged,” Aurane begins slowly.

“Gods!” Lyarra says, “My uncle told me of this. Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” she grimaced as she said the word, “He worked for a smith, Tobho Mott, who knows how to reforge Valyrian steel. He turned Ice into the two blades it is now. They both know how to work with Valyrian steel.”

“That will do us little good,” Benjen says, “There are few houses that would part with their larger blades to make smaller ones. There are too few great swords to make two blades anyway.”

“We don’t need larger blades to create smaller ones” Aurane says, “We need _smaller_ ones to create _larger_ ones.”

“You mean to melt daggers of Valyrian steel into swords,” Lyarra says, “That’s perfect. Two or three daggers could make a longsword easily and they are far more plentiful than swords.”

“Daggers may be more common than swords, but we have few of those,” Ser Arthur says, “The collection here in the Red Keep only has a dozen, as is.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Benjen begins, “When Ned raided the Iron Islands to serve the King’s justice to them for what happened at Winterfell, he said that Euron Greyjoy had a hoard of over a hundred Valyrian daggers that he brought back on his ship.”

“Acquire them,” Aegon says, “Call it penance for rising against the Realm, if we must. They believe in the Iron Price, do they not? We beat them and this will be what we take. It’s still only thirty more blades, but it’s better than nothing and it will arm our best swordsmen.”

“Wait,” says Lyarra almost as she is ready to turn and leave with Daenerys towards Dragonstone, “What about Bran?”

Benjen looks at her oddly, “What about him? He will be sent away, maybe, to keep him safe.” All present know of Bran’s crippledness, and Benjen looks at the Kingslayer in anger for a moment.

“No,” Lyarra says earnestly, “He has those weird tree dreams now, hasn’t he? He told me- he said he has seen everything. He told me he saw them build the Wall.”

“You mean-” Benjen begins.

Lyarra nods her head, “Maybe he could figure out how to make Valyrian steel by looking further back?”

Aegon looks unsurprised by her idea. He has always had faith in her, and he will always believe her to be worth more than she believes she is worth, “I am always impressed by your intellect, sister. Both the beauty and intellect of mother Lyanna. If you would send a raven to your cousin?”

When she and Daenerys part the next morning upon their dragons with the children strapped to their backs, Lyarra cannot help but wonder if this is the last time she will see King’s Landing ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I've been super pleased with all the feedback so far! If you liked this chapter, or you see something I could improve upon, please tell me below. I do not have a beta reader, so please excuse any errors I have made. I tried to edit as much as possible, but I probably missed something, somewhere. Please expect chapter 3 by the end of the month earliest. Although it is mostly finished, it must be edited, and unfortunately, the rough draft of my dissertation is due on early August so that has to be my priority at the moment!


	3. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here it is! The final chapter! I had this written, and it was much easier to edit than chapter 2 was, so I've posted it now so that everyone can enjoy it. I'm super happy with this chapter, and I think I did with this story exactly what I set out to do - to write a story where three people could feasibly fall in love. I hope you all enjoyed it thusfar, and that this chapter is everything you wanted it to be.

_They are enslaved. Their hair is dark, skin tanned to a deep brown, so very different than the features that are common in Old Valyria. They are burning under the weight of the sun, under the weight of fire, under the weight of the dragons. Bran feels the heat himself, as though he is there, in that moment, burning alongside the slaves. He feels them dying with each breath, feels them sweltering within the glow of the forge._

_He watches the warlock slit the neck of the dragon, watches it bleed into the frothy liquid metal below._

_“Se ānogar hen zaldrīzes!” he screams as the dragon screeches and bleeds and dies._

_“Se ānogar hen dārys!” he shrieks as he bleeds a frightened young girl with Valyrian white hair and violet eyes. Bran wants to look away, wants to unsee what he is seeing. But the Three-Eyed Raven must look. He must_ see _. And so Bran watches as the dragon bleeds and the girl bleeds and the warlock chants and chants that the dragon must bleed, that the king must bleed._

_And the pot of liquid steel burns so bright that Bran can barely look at it, and he cannot understand how the slaves are working in this heat, cannot understand how they are not blinded by the white light around them. The great pot begins to tip and the liquid metal drains into hundreds of castes._

_He can hear clanging, as the slaves take turns beating the metal in front of him. A dragon roars, the forge shakes, and the slaves burn._

* * *

“Mama, story?” questions Elyanna as she sits between Ghost and Visērion. Ghost is enjoying the heavy petting he is receiving from the tiny human and her littermates, but Visērion is napping on the cool sandy beach of Dragonstone.

“A story of what, my love?” Lyarra asks as she turns from her book.

“Dārilaros!” Rhaegaron demands in Valyrian.

Lyarra frowns and replies in Common Tongue, “Which Princess? Daenerys Martell or Rhaenyra?”

“No, mama,” Rhaegaron exclaims in frustration, “Prince Aemon Dragonknight.”

Lyarra smiles, “I thought you were speaking of a princess, my love. I am sorry.” She sees Dany from the top of the stairs waving a hand, “I will certainly tell you a story. But first, we must go to see mother.”

Ghost stands up immediately and Visērion opens an eye before giving a huff of long suffering and allowing them onto her back to fly up the many stairs of Dragonstone.

Maester Aemon is standing beside Daenerys, with a grim look on his face, “A raven, Your Graces.”

“Unc Ae-mon,” Elyanna cries while she pulls on his robes, “I not Grace, I Elyanna.”

Maester Aemon smiles and lets out a soft chuckle before kneeling down to her height, “My deepest apologies, young Princess.”

“Please,” Lyarra says, “Do you have the letter?”

“From Winterfell,” Aemon replies holding the letter out for them to take.

At their feet, Rhaegaron, and Elyanna are arguing about who gets to sit on Uncle Aemon’s lap for the next story he tells, and who gets to wear his chain while Rhaella watches them go back and forth.

“He favorite,” Elyanna says with wisdom speaking of their elderly blind uncle.

Rhaegar nods sagely, “Favorite except Ghost.”

Elyanna looks scandalized, “Shagdog!”

Rhaegaron respond by rearing back as though deeply offended, and behind him, Ghost looks just as insulted, “Ghost then Shagdog!”

Little Rhaella is between them watching her brother and sister argue and wondering why mama, mother, and papa are not the favorites.

“Visy, Ghost, Sh-”

“Would you two stop arguing?” Daenerys finally says, and the children fall quiet, glaring at each other, while Rhaegaron hugs Ghost as if to protect him from his twin sister. Truly, it’s not an unwanted sight, the two children arguing, because the problems beyond the wall are always pressing on their minds and maybe they will never see their children again.

Lyarra looks up to Daenerys, pale faced, “Bran knows how to make Valyrian steel.”

“This is not a price we can pay,” Aegon cries when they tell him later, “A dragon could kill far more of the dead than many of the men that would be facing the wights.”

“Just so,” Daenerys says, “We cannot sacrifice one of my children. And we have no blood of Valyria for the human sacrifice either.”

“Not a sacrifice,” Lyanna mumbles, “It just needs to be blood of a Valyrian king.”

“With the amount of blood needed to make the amount of steel we need, it would be a sacrifice,” Aegon says, “And the dragon needs three heads more than it needs a few hundred swords.”

“Fine,” Lyarra spits in annoyance, “I was just making it known that Bran knows how to make Valyrian steel. Now that we know, it’s an option, if something happens to me.”

“Don’t say that,” Daenerys pleas at once, “You know you cannot say that.”

“I can,” Lyarra says, “Elyanna and Rhaegaron almost killed me but I see another child, have dreamed it. If I am dying of the birthing fever, love her, and take my blood.”

“You cannot-” Aegon begins ashen faced.

“I can,” Lyarra interrupts, “And when you are done, you will burn me, so they can never take me.”

Dany looks particularly upset, and Lyarra knows it is both out of worry for Lyarra and out of fear for herself. Childbirth is dangerous, and they all know it. Little Aegon, their infant from Dany had been born quite easily, but the fear was still there.

“I want to send the children to Essos,” Dany says finally, “after Visērion lays her eggs, so they may not let the dragons die out again.”

Fear grips Lyarra’s heart. Send away her children, take them from their mothers when they were still so young? Would they have the same unhappy childhood she had? Or that Dany had had? Always living in fear, and never able to take their crowns?

“If we lose against the Night’s King, Essos will be destroyed anyway,” Aegon points out, “Just because the wights don’t swim doesn’t mean that they won’t freeze the ocean to walk across the Narrow sea or take boats.”

“We burn the boats,” Dany says, “Or send them all across the Narrow Sea when the battle begins.”

Lyarra sighs and her heart clenches, “We should send them. Sansa will take them,” she says finally, “We will send them with Sansa, great-uncle Aemon, Lady Ashara, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah.”

“Missandei, as well,” Daenerys says, “And perhaps a few Unsullied and Dothraki riders. We will send them with a fleet of ships and gold.”

Aegon sits heavily down in his chair, “I hate this. I hate that we are planning to send our children across the ocean because we might lose this war.”

“It must be done,” Dany says stonily, face betraying nothing of the emotions within, “I have no desire to part from my children, but if we lose, they must be saved.”

“And what of the others?” Lyarra asks quietly, “Can we not send all of the women and children across the Narrow Sea? They could live in Meereen.”

“The Wall still stands, and if we win, they will all have to return,” Aegon points out, “It would be a waste of resources.”

“But if we lose, more dead will rise. I say we send them with the fleet when we leave for battle. Commandeer the Ironborn fleet, the Velaryon fleet, and we can used Dany’s ships. We should be able to evacuate the women and children with all those ships. Just because we may die does not mean that we all must.”

Aegon sighs, “Fine. I will see it done,” he stands, “Your uncle Ned sent a raven, Lyarra. The warriors and smiths we sent have begun to reach Winterfell, and they brought the provisions needed until Benjen can finish establishing the supply line from the Reach.”

Lyarra nods, “We have sent twenty-six shipfuls of dragonglass. Most have been sent to White Harbor, but we’ve sent a supply to Dorne and the Stormlands as well so that we can have all the forges begin to make the weapons we need before they must travel North.”

Dany crosses her legs, “And there is still plenty to be found,” she says, “We have not even begun mining outside of the castle grounds, if need more.”

Lyarra walks to the open balcony to look out towards the freezing wind that is blowing across the destitute island of Dragonstone. “Winter is coming,” she says, as her nipples harden in the frost, “And the dead come with it.”

* * *

“A rider in black, you say?” questions Olenna, “What could the night’s watch want from us?” she clucks, “Surely his sense of direction has sent him South so he might save his cock from being bitten off in the frost?”

One of her granddaughters looks scandalized and Olenna rolls her eyes, “Close your mouth, dear, or you might catch flies,” she pauses, “More likely something _else_ given what your mother told me about what was found in your solar yesterday. Or rather _who_.”

The herald enters before her granddaughter can do anything but look embarrassed, “The First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, Lady Olenna,” he says, “Benjen Stark. Accompanied by Ser Sandor Clegane, and Tyrion Lannister.”

Olenna allows them in as her son enters, “You ought not say anything oafish, Mace, or I’ll turn you on your backside. You aren’t too old for it.”

Her son looks offended but she shuts him up with a single look.

“My Lady,” Benjen Stark says, “I greet you with happy tidings.”

“I wonder,” Lady Olenna replies after supplying bread and salt, “What has driven a man of the Night’s Watch from the Wall? Especially after the raven we received a fortnight passed that says we should prepare to head North.”

Benjen motions to a box held by Clegane, and what they see both frightens and amazes them.

“The supply line will be started immediately,” Olenna says before turning to one of her grandsons, “See that the bannermen begin to march North. We must reach the Neck in a turn’s time.”

“Might I use your rookery?” Benjen questions, “I must go to the Riverlands next, and I must send word to the King and Queens that the supply line has started.”

Finally, Olenna turns to Benjen again, “If we lose, Stark? What happens then?”

“Nothing,” says Benjen baldly in the way that Northerners are known to do, “We all die, and the Night’s King resurrects us as those.” Benjen can tell Lady Olenna is thinking of her granddaughter Margaery, who is the next Lady of Winterfell so he tries to comfort her in the only way he can, “We are sending the women and children away,” Benjen says, having read the message sent by rider when they had arrived at the Reach, “Ready any boats you have, and several ships will come to you to take women and children to safety in Meereen.”

Olenna is wearing a face without emotion, but Benjen can tell by the shift in her back that she is pleased to hear that her granddaughter and her family might escape the dangers of the Night’s King.

“What news from the North?” demands Mace, “What news of my daughter?”

Willas looks at his father, “Margaery sent us a raven only a turn ago, father.”

“Regardless!” Mace booms.

“She is well. The child is healthy. A boy, named Brynden Stark. Mother and child are safe.”

Willas lets out a breath, “And the missive that told me to journey to King’s Landing?”

“Please do so soon. His Grace has offered you a position on the Small Council overlooking harvests, if we survive the Long Night, and to govern in their place while they face the Others.”

“He accepts!” Mace butts in, and Olenna gives him a furious look because hasn’t he heard the rest of Benjen’s statement? There may not even be a Seven Kingdoms to govern after the dead are done ravaging their armies so what use is a Small Council at all?

“I will certainly do as the realm asks,” Willas replies dutifully as he turns to his squire, “Have them ready my litter. We leave at first light in two days.”

Olenna is grateful she has at least one male offspring that isn’t a complete idiot.

* * *

“She’s in a foul temper,” Daenerys agrees as she watches Drogon fly angrily away from Visērion.

“Mayhaps she is laying her eggs?” Lyarra questions as she watches her dragon soar in circles “It’s only been a year that we know of for sure, but she was acting odd before that so it might have been two. Is that too soon?

Dany shrugs, “I do not know. My eggs were stone when I hatched them.”

Visērion let off a spray of fire and then begins to screech as she lands and then hunches over. A slick of red began to fall.

“Is that-”

“The blood of the dragon! Could we use that for-”

Dany and Lyarra begin rushing towards Visērion with Aegon following closely behind. Dany yells out to the Dothraki to come with tubs and the blood is spray from Visērion as she pushes the first egg of the clutch. It’s a light lilac with stripes of red and as Lyarra catches it she feels the burning heat from the egg before handing it to Missandei.

“Is this enough for the steel?” Ser Jorah questions.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aegon snaps, “because I will not sacrifice my sister or my aunt to have the blood of kings.”

“We need not die to give the blood, brother,” Lyarra says, “Uncle Aemon says he can bleed us each enough to get the blood we need without endangering our lives. I asked.”

Aegon doesn’t look happy about the prospect of a Maester letting their blood even if he is their uncle, but he acquiesces that it is necessary for the survival of Westeros.

Ser Jorah says nothing as he takes an emerald green egg with splatters of bronze dots from Lyarra’s outstretched hands.

Visērion lays a total of nine eggs of varying shades and sizes. The largest is a white and black egg, and the smallest is a stone-grey egg with black speckling. Visērion is panting, and she finally makes a low keening and then lies down and Lyarra can tell that Visērion wants to see her eggs, wants to see her children.

“Jurnegon ry aōha riñar, Visērion. Emā gaomagon syrī, ñuha raqiros.” She hugs Visērion tightly and then strokes her nostrils, “Good girl. Good, good girl.” Lyarra begins to tear up and Visērion snorts out a line of tired steam as she nuzzles into Lyarra’s belly to be pet more.

“Give her a few scratches behind the ears,” Dany says, “She likes that the most.”

“Sweet Visērion,” Aegon says as he does as Dany suggests, “Fetch the children and have them in their solar. We have gifts for them,” he says to Doreah, who rushes away quickly to ready the children.

They set the dragon eggs in front of the children while Visērion slumbers. Lyarra had felt the warmth in them as she held them. These dragons are real; they are alive. They are waiting to bond with a rider.

Elyanna jumps up so fast when she sees the eggs that her silver-gold locks bounce, “Papa, egg?” she questions as she holds the lilac and red egg in her hands, “Can I have?” she asks sweetly, and then holds the egg towards Dany, “Warm, mother.”

Lyarra lets out a breath she had been holding. Elyanna is a true dragon, and she is a true rider if she can feel the heat. Elyanna feels the warmth, feels the future fire, “Why not hold them all before you decide which egg is yours?” Lyarra asks reasonably.

Elyanna pauses and hands her mama the egg, as though to keep it safe and holds all the eggs in turn with Rhaegaron and Rhaella but finally comes back and holds her hands out to take the lilac egg back.

“This one,” she says firmly, “She friend.”

Rhaegaron is waddling with speed towards Ashara where he shows her the green egg, “Look, Aunt Shar. Egg. Hatch. Dragon.”

He receives a pat on the head and then he turns to watch Rhaella marvel at the last egg that Visērion laid, a golden egg with red ripples of fire.

“Mother, dragon?” she says as she strokes the egg.

“Yes,” Dany says, “One day you will hatch them. And they will be your companions. As Drogon is mine, Visērion is your mama’s, and Rhaegal is your father’s..”

“What about Aegon?” Elyanna asks, “Egg need egg,” she says solemnly and Rhaella nods quickly.

“Fair,” she says.

Dany takes baby Aegon from Sansa and then allows him to hover his small hands near the eggs until he reaches out for a black and red egg.

“Lock the rest away in a padded box,” Aegon directs Ser Arthur, “And ready them for the ships.”

Lyarra’s heart falls into her stomach. In her excitement, she forgot the agreement they had made, to send the children to Essos to survive the White Walkers when the eggs are laid. And the children don’t know. As soon as Elyanna and Rhaegaron find out that they may never see their parents again they will throw tantrums. And Lyarra, Dany, and Aegon made a promise that they would never lie to their children the way that they had all been lied to. Aegon hadn’t known he was a Prince until he was old enough to understand it had to be kept secret, Viserys had lied about King Aerys to Dany, and Ned had lied to Lyarra for her entire life until she had left Winterfell.

“Ready the ships for the children,” Dany says stonily, and if Lyarra didn’t know her as well as she did she might think that the Queen had no emotion about sending her children away. But Lyarra can tell that Dany is hurting just as she is hurting.

“Mama, you come too?” Rhaella asks Lyarra and she wants to cry because she can’t. She isn’t. How can they send their little dragons away like this? But they had long ago promised not to lie to their children. So she won’t do so now.

“No, my love,” Lyarra says as she strokes Rhaella’s silver-blonde hair affectionately, “I am not coming.”

“Mother?” Rhaegaron questions, “You come?”

“I cannot,” Daenerys says, “But, Lady Ashara and Lady Sansa will join you.”

Rhaegaron only looks slightly mollified at this news, but deeply disturbed by the idea that neither his mother nor his mama will join him on a boat that he has no interested in stepping onto.

“Papa?” Elyanna asks and Aegon just shakes his head.

“Ghost?” Rhaegaron demands and Lyarra sucks in a breath.

They had been unsure about Ghost. She was a protector, and she would be useful against the dead, but in the end, “She will come too, and so will your eggs.”

“As we discussed, Sansa,” Dany says as she places Aegon into Sansa’s open arma. He’s asleep, and it hurts Lyarra because she wonders if he will ever see their faces again. Does he know her beyond the dark nipple he had suckled on when Dany had no milk to give? Or Aegon? Will he remember Daenerys?

They may never see their children again. No one may ever call her mama again. Not Elyanna and Rhaegaron. Not Rhaella and Aegon. Four of the most important people in her life she may never see gain. Her children.

It hurts to see the children led onto the boats, and it hurts even more for her when she sees Elyanna begin to weep as she is the boat begins to move from the harbor of Dragonstone. Lyarra is crying because she sees Elyanna crying out for her moma, and Rhaegaron begins to cry, followed by Rhaella and then finally Aegon. Lyarra grips Dany’s hand so hard Dany squeaks in pain and then Lyarra puts her face into Aegon’s shoulder as they all watch the boat fade into the horizon.

“I feel as though I have lost a part of myself,” Lyarra whispers in agony, “I am a terrible mother. I know this. What mother sends their children away?”

When they reach their chambers, Dany finally begins to cry and Lyarra just hurts inside. Dany has said goodbye to her children and it kills her. She had no chance to say goodbye to Rhaego. She had no chance to tell her babe she loved him. She has said it to their children now, but it does nothing to settle the pain. Their children are still gone, and everyone may still die.

Aegon brushes away Dany’s tears and then Lyarra’s. They are all three in pain, and they know this.

“Why?” Lyarra cries in earnest, “Why did we have to send them away? I feel empty, as though someone has ripped my soul from my body. What have I done?” she laments through hiccupping tears, “What have I _done_?!”

“You are doing what is best for them; putting their needs before yours. Because you are a loving mother. You are both _loving_ , _powerful_ , _wonderful_ mothers.”

And Aegon quiets her, putting his lips to hers and the three are closer than they have ever been, all in pain, all hurting, all crying out for the children they may never see again. And Lyarra can’t stand the look of pain on Daenerys’ face, can’t stand to see how terribly she aches. And so she kisses her, deeply, the way she did the first time they had lain together. There is passion, this night, passion born from mutual pain, aching, _longing_.

Aegon’s cock is impossibly hard at her backside, harder than he has ever been before, hotter than he has ever been before. She reaches behind her to stroke him because in this moment there is nothing else she can do to ease the pain of loss that they all feel. She feels so lost, and the only way she thinks she may not break is if they are together, as one, as they are meant to be.

She is so wet that Aegon slips right into her. _How can it feel so good,_ Lyarra wonders,  _when I hurt so much?_ His chest is pressed up against her back and Dany is kissing her at her front, playing with her teats, her teeth biting the sensitive hardened nipples on Lyarra’s breast.

_It is too much_ she thinks, _everything is too much._

Aegon is shoving harder now, and he slips an arm under her leg to hoist up one of her legs over his thighs. He isn’t hitting as deep as he has before but Dany is there, now. Her tongue at Lyarra’s folds and Lyarra grips Dany’s hair so tightly she is sure that all she feels is pain. And then her world explodes, and Aegon is spilling inside of her, cumming so hard that he sinks his teeth into her neck.

“Ae—gon,” she moans in pleasure-pain, and he is slipping out of her, his seed is seeping from between her legs where Dany is still licking, eating, perhaps, because she is sucking down Aegon’s cum and Lyarra’s wetness while looking Lyarra in the eyes.

“It is too much,” she gasps, because she can feel it coming again, or maybe it never left, and her cunt is on _fire_.

But Aegon is not soft yet and so he rolls over and is in Dany within seconds. It’s taking everything in Lyarra to stay awake, to see how beautiful they look together. To see the way that Dany’s bosom shakes when Aegon pounds her into the bed; to see the way that the sweat drops from Aegon’s brow as he concentrates on the scene in front of him. They are beautiful together. Dany is soft, round, loving, with her hardened nipples and sparse curls on her slit and Aegon is all sharp lines of rippled muscle pressing into her. They are dragons, mating, primal, on fire, _raging_ in their lust.

And Dany turns her head towards Lyarra as she grips the sheets tightly and rocks up and down the bed, and pulls Lyarra into a kiss. It is smooth. It is sweet. It is bruising. It is everything Lyarra needs to stay alive when everything around her is burning. Aegon finishes with a jerk as Dany lets out a pleasured _ohhh_ and the moment is gone. It’s done.

Her womb is full of Aegon’s seed and her lips are swollen from Dany’s kisses and her neck aches where Aegon has bitten her. They needed each other, and they had each other. That night, the three heads of the dragon huddle together for warmth, comfort, and a dream of dragons and new life has been created.

* * *

The weapons had begun to arrive at Winterfell a turn and a half prior. The first wheelhouse of supplies had been raw dragonglass from Dragonstone, and every other day since then, some sort of weapons had arrived at the Seat of the North. Only a fortnight prior, a rider from the Reach had crossed the neck to extend the supply line, and the first of the Knights had arrived from the Vale.

A raven had arrived before that from Dorne that their men were coming by ship, and that these ships would leave from White Harbor to take those who needed to evacuate to Essos. Samwell Tarly and his legion of free folk elderly, women, and children had begun to take the trip to White Harbor to board the ships to Essos.

“Why should the wildlings take the first of the evacuation boats?” demanded Lord Glover from the back of the hall.

Ned has already explained this thrice, “It is only the first of many boats that will leave the North with women and children. The _free folk_ have agreed to face the dead if their weak are sent to safety.”

“And what of all those Southern cunts?” asks Lord Karstark, “How can we be sure they are sending aid?”

“Aye!” calls another lord from the back in agreement.

“The King and Queens gave us their word-” Robb begins.

“What is their word worth to the North?” hollers Karstark from his place in the middle of the hall.

Margaery looks unsure and turns to Robb, “The Reach is almost done establishing a supply line from Highgarden up to Castle Black. And the Targaryens have sent us the dragonglass we need to make weapons-”

“Why not sent us _finished_ weapons?” demands Lord Umber.

“They have done,” says Ned, “And they have every forge in King’s Landing burning to create Valyrian swords needed for this battle.”

Tormund Giantsbane, a free folk man that Benjen had befriended stands, “We free folk are particularly good with a bow. Will you southerners share the dragonglass for weapons? We have our own way to defend our lands, and we only ask for a means to do it.”

Glover looks seething at the presence of the free folk and opens his mouth but Ned cuts him off, “We can provide the supplies needed to create arrows. Word from Ly-Queen Visenya says that the Dornish will be doing the same and are coming with oil and fat for flaming arrows.”

“And what about those with their arses on the throne safe in Dragonstone?” demands Roose Bolton quietly, “Northern blood has been spilt and this Northern queen seems to have forgotten her roots.” Many of the men cheer in agreement and Robb narrows his eyes.

He does not trust Roose Bolton, or his bastard Ramsay. Very infrequently do the Boltons say anything at all, and whenever they do it is both quiet and deceptive.

“The King and Queens have pledged their support at great personal cost,” Ned repeats, “And they will travel North as soon as they are free from their duties.”

“What’s more important than the dead?” asks a free man angrily, “All you kneelers let us die and fight alone for too long-”

“Please!” says Robb loudly before another fight can start, “I grew up with the Queen. She is honorable, and they have vowed to come with their dragons to defend the Seven Kingdoms from the Night King.”

The men are raging, and although Ned is frustrated by their behavior he can’t say he blames them for their resentment. The North had been hit hard by the War of Five Kings. Their men had died in battle for a crown they never claimed, and even with the supplies gained between the marriage of Highgarden and Winterfell, starvation was always a possibility, especially in winter. He doesn’t want to tell his bannermen to shut up and take it, to eat crow and stop complaining. But he might have to until someone else does it for him.

Little Lady Lyanna Mormont stands upon the bench she was sitting on. She is the last of her house, her mother having died at the failed Red Wedding, “I have been a Northerner since before I was born. My blood is of the North, and my soul is of the North. I will live and die here, and if this death must come defending the lands that my ancestors have protected since the time of the First Men then I will do so gladly. Queen Visenya Targaryen, Lyarra Snow, a name means nothing to me but that she has the blood of Lyanna Stark.

“The North that shunned her, that reluctantly helped to take her back her throne is now demanding her service, and perhaps her life. And she will give it. Because she is also of the North and she has honor. It is not because she is a Northern woman. Today I see many Northerners about that have no honor left,” she turns to Lord Glover, “You who would deny women and children access to vessels that may save their lives after their dead have been forced back to life,” she then looks at Lord Karstark, “You who would ask the rest of the Seven Kingdoms to do all of our work for us when the Crown has spared no expense to rush supplies to us in our time of need.” Finally, she turns to Bolton, “And you, who have been openly disrespecting Northern honor by disgracing our ways for many years.”

Several lords chatter and Robb sucks in a deep breath, worried that Lyanna Mormont has made an enemy of the pale-eyed Lord Bolton. But she is not wrong. Whispers come from Dreadfort, and all Lyanna has done is said she has heard them.

“Today, and every day so forth, I pledge the men and the pride of Bear Island to House Stark, and to Queen Visenya and those who rule after her. Because I am no coward, and I know no Queen but the one who is both dragon and wolf whose name is Visenya Targaryen.”

Lyanna Mormont breaks the dam, and the North is different than it was before. They are ready for the dead, in that moment, ready to survive and to fight.

“Winter is coming,” Ned says as men stand, “When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

* * *

The Dothraki and the Golden Company leave King’s Landing two turns before the dragons leave their ancestral seat of Dragonstone. The Golden Company are fighting only because Aegon promises to allow them to stay in Westeros if they do. The Golden Company take this deal, and set sail for King’s Landing in time to march with the Dothraki forces from King’s Landing to the Wall.

They leave a force of Unsullied in King’s Landing to protect the city from foreign threats, and the last of the boats leave King’s Landing with women and children towards Meereen with the rest of the Unsullied host and the Second Sons under Daario Naharis.

Lyarra mounts Visērion and she can’t help but feel as though she is flying towards her end. Something tells her that it is near, that this will be the last stand for her. But she flies and flies until she passes over the Eyrie, and the Fingers and then arrives at White Harbor. They eat and rest at an inn for the night, and send the dragons to hunt and then the next morning they leave as the sun rises.

Daenerys is impassive as they arrive at Winterfell, and Aegon looks as though he is contemplating that they may never see King’s Landing again. Lyarra knows he is thinking this because she is also thinking that they will never survive this battle. Lyarra has only just realized that she is with child, and she thinks perhaps she has condemned a babe to die before it even sees the light of the world it is within. _What kind of mother am I? I sent away my first two and I am condemned my third to death._ If they all die, the world is over, and she has missed the precious few turns she could have had with her children here, in this cursed tundra.

“A king must die for his men,” Aegon had said, “We fight, and we bleed.”

She had agreed.

Ned is waiting for them in the courtyard when they arrive, and Aegon is the first off of Rhaegal, followed by Lyarra and then Dany.

“Uncle,” Aegon greets as he shakes Ned’s hand, “It is good to see you alive.” The jape makes Robb snort. Impending doom means it is much harder to find things to laugh about, but the possibility of their demise has been a point of dark humor for weeks.

“Where are Arya and Sansa?” Catelyn asks, trying not to sound too frightened that neither of her daughters have arrived with the dragons.

“Arya is riding North with the Golden Company,” Lyarra says, “I tried to force her onto the boats, but she threatened to stab me, so there wasn’t much I could do.” She had tried truly, but she knew there was no way that Arya was willingly going to step onto a boat away from a battle. And it terrified her. Arya was small and though she was muscular and light on her feet she would be no match for the brute strength of the dead.

“And Sansa?” Rickon asks.

It had been far easier to send Sansa away. Although she was a different person after suffering at the hands of Joffrey and Cersei, Sansa and Arya were cut from different cloth. While Arya had the blood of the wolf and the thirst for the fight the way that Lyarra and Lyanna had, Sansa favored her Tully blood. She was quiet in her strength, but she was a leader, not a warrior. She had learned not to hope, not to dream, and that the worst thing happened from Cersei. But she had learned to lead from her, and from Dany and Lyarra. Sansa was resilient, but she was no warrior princess like Arya or the Targaryens she had long admired. She was Sansa.

Bran has no emotion on his face, and Lyarra thinks he may know exactly where Sansa is, because he has those tree dreams now.

“She should be near Volantis at this point,” Lyarra finally says, and Catelyn’s eyes bulge, “We sent her with our children to Meereen, where they will be safe if we lose this war.”

The mood dampens, at the thought that they may all die when they face the dead and that everything they are doing is all for nothing. Everything feels hopeless, and Lyarra isn’t sure that anyone will survive this war. Mayhaps it will be a massacre, and they will all die. Mayhaps the Long Night will happen no matter what they do. Mayhaps the gods have doomed them all to die.

“But there is some good news,” Dany says, “My people in Meereen have sent word that there exists a new weapon in Yi Ti that Benjen believes may be of use to us. They call it the fire tube, and they have sent one hundred of these devices to use at Castle Black.”

Aegon unrolls the plans at the war room in Winterfell, “This is lit with a spark, and then this explosive powder forces the projectile from the hole, here,” he points, “at the target.”

“We tested the ones that arrived at Dragonstone and they work with obsidian,” Lyarra says, “Unfortunately they are very heavy, and since we have sent away all the boats they will arrive with our men coming from the south. They should be here within a sennight. We passed our host on our way here on our dragons.”

Ned nods, “And when they arrive, we will leave to Castle Black?”

“It has the most men, and the most fortifications. And we can’t let them get to Eastwatch-by-the-sea and Shadow Tower because they’re too close to the water,” Robb says, “If it freezes-”

“We’re going to have to funnel them towards Castle Black,” Aegon surmises, “Perhaps by giving them an easy path without trees, that way they may not question the direction they are moving in? And bring the trees you cut down back. We will need them to fortify Castle Black.”

“The free folk can help with that,” says Tormund, who is representing the free folk after Mance Ryder’s death some turns before, “We know the land better than anyone else.”

“Aye,” says the wildling princess, Val, “We do, and with the right weapons we can thin their numbers.”

“Or add to them with a massacre,” Dany says, “Maybe Drogon and I should-”

“We cannot reveal the dragons early,” Lyarra says, “They are the only trump we have against the Others.”

“And the cannons,” Aegon says, “Although we have yet to test them on wights.”

Ned leans back, “We have three hundred thousand men, but only weapons to arm half of them with steel or obsidian daggers.”

“The free folk have fashioned arrowheads of obsidian,” Tormund says, “We are armed.”

“And the fire tube, if it works, will be a boon,” Benjen continues. But they all know that there is no point in having such a host of strong men if they have no blades to weild.

“It will not save us!” Lyarra finally says and the room goes quiet. Dany is looking at her in fear, as though she has been waiting for Lyarra to say this, to open her mouth and cause a scene. But she continues anyway angry and barely swollen with child, “No one can save us,” Lyarra says before anyone can interject, “ _We_ must save ourselves. We must have a plan.”

If the men in the room are put out by her comment, they don’t let it show, and they spend hours in the war room planning their next move. The next morning, Benjen and Tormund leave with the free folk contingent and a mountain of dragonglass arrows to force the Others to attack at Castle Black.

* * *

And here they are in Winterfell a turn later, making the last plans to leave for Castle Black at first light. Their armies have begun to march to the Wall, and the Targaryens have stayed at Winterfell to prepare it for a siege if the Others overrun their forces at the wall. It won’t work anyway, Lyarra knows, because if the Others have a force of three hundred thousand men there would be no stopping them.

So Lyarra seeks refuge in the only place where she knows she will not be bothered. Aegon is with Ned, and Daenerys is with Robb, and they will all be together in the evening. For now, she is in the crypts, visiting her Lady mother for the first time. She’d been in too much of a hurry to see her the night that she had left the North behind. But now she has time to think and remember all that her mother gave to her before she died. She is here for solitude, but she is not alone.

Lady Catelyn is already in the crypts when Lyarra finally steps into the dark space, but she has not noticed the Queen’s presence.

“Forgive me, Lyanna,” Catelyn is saying, “My good-sister, for what I have done. I treated her with disdain. And I made it harder for Ned to keep his promise. And I angered the gods and now they have brought ruin to our Kingdom. I broke my word to the gods.”

“What word?” Lyarrra questions before she can help herself.

“Lya- How long have you been ther- Pardon, Your Grace.” Lady Catelyn still doesn’t know how to address the former Bastard of Winterfell. It’s fine though, because Lyarra doesn’t know how to address the former bane of her existence.

“What word?” Lyarra asks again. Perhaps it is a command. Perhaps she is becoming stronger; a dragon. Like Dany. Like Aegon.

Catelyn looks uncomfortable, and she shifts where she stands before she opens her mouth, “I am ashamed, Your Grace, for how I treated you.” She sounds different than the first time she apologized. She sounds sincere in a way she did not before and Lyarra is reminded that Catelyn is complex the way all women are complex. She is only human. She is no god, even though Lyarra had once feared her as though she was one.

“I was wrong. Not because you are not Ned’s daughter. Not because you are now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. But because you were a daughter without a mother to guide you. Because when you came down with the pox when you were a babe I prayed for your death and when I did it I was horrified with myself. I promised the gods if they would spare your life that I would ask Ned to legitimize you, that I would treat you as my own.”

“You didn’t,” Lyarra surmises, not because she is predicting what Catelyn is saying, but because she grew up a bastard. She knows now why Catelyn is begging for forgiveness, now.

“I did not. I deluded myself into thinking you got better yourself. And I brought the wrath of the gods upon my house and this Kingdom for breaking my word.”

And the Riverlands, Lyarra thinks, who had been ravaged by the War of Five Kings. But Lyarra feels pity for Catelyn in that moment, because she often wonders if the gods are punishing her, too. And she thinks, maybe now is time to let the past be the past. Maybe now is the time to find common ground with the woman who had once wished her dead.

“If you brought the wrath of the gods for your mistakes, then so have I.”

Catelyn looks taken aback, as though surprised that Lyarra is not cursing her for her misdeeds.

Lyarra lets out a self-deprecating laugh, “I lay with my brother and my aunt, or did you not hear? Surely the gods do not look kindly on those who commit incest twice over and enjoy the touch of a woman.”

It’s something she has long struggled with. She loves Dany, loves Aegon. And she can’t understand how loving them could ever be wrong when it brings her so much happiness. But she thinks of all the things she has been taught, and she knows that though she has finally accepted that this is who she is, not many others would agree with her belief. It had taken her time to get to this point. Her internal hatred had been strong, until she had decided she was done being angry at herself for being who she is.

Catelyn has no response to her revelation, and Lyarra realizes that this is not the woman who had bent the knee at the Red Keep. It is not the woman who scorned her. That woman would have told her that she was responsible, that her dirty ways had brought shame to her house. This woman, though. This is a woman who is ravaged by war. Who had thought her children dead, had nearly lost her husband, whose homelands had been ravaged by the Iron Born and the Lannisters. The old Catelyn might have called her unnatural, might have spat in her face and cursed her to the seven hells for laying with a woman.

But this Catelyn only puts her aging hands around Lyarra’s, “It is no more wrong to love who you love than any other sin that men commit. If you brought the wrath of the gods, then we all brought their anger. Mayhaps we all must be taught a lesson.”

It’s a comfort, somewhere, that Catelyn isn’t wishing her to the seven hells, but Lyarra places a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, “It might mean nothing, on the eve of our move to Castle Black, but I forgave you long ago.”

Catelyn looks surprised. Lyarra had accepted her apology on her knees but to hear her forgiveness from her own lips was an entirely different matter. “I do not deserve-” began Catelyn.

“Aye, but you do. You made up for what you did. By loving and protecting my cousins and taking care of my uncle. We will perhaps never be close, but I forgive you, for I no longer wish to hold anger in my heart towards you. I cannot be angry anymore.” After seeing her children leaving on the horizon, Lyarra is different. She knows what a mother will do for her child, and though she knows she would never behave the way Catelyn has, as she loves Rhaella and Aegon just as much as the children who came from her own womb, she knows the fear a mother has for her children.

Catelyn lets out a breath and tears up before she hugs Lyarra tightly. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but Lyarra allows it, “You are strong, Ly-Visenya. Like your mother was strong. Like Elia Martell was strong. Like the warrior Queens of your house are strong,” Catelyn pauses, “And I would be honored if Arya grows to be the woman you are.”

Lyarra nearly cries because in her eyes, knowing how deeply Lady Catelyn loves her children, this is a compliment of the highest regard. Catelyn, who had denied Arya a sword, had barred Arya from spending extended periods of time in Lyarra’s presences, who had near starved Lyarra when she found the two with wooden blades, wanted nothing but for her daughter to be as strong as Lyarra.

Aye, they wouldn’t be mother and daughter, or even friends. But there is respect, and Lyarra thinks perhaps that’s better than anything else.

* * *

Castle Black is frozen beyond what Lyarra has ever known. It is colder than she has ever imagined, even as a Northern woman raised in snow and ice. It is a new cold, a different type of cold. It burns, as though it is fire, burns so cold she doesn’t know if their armies will survive. They’ve put furs on the Dothraki, forced them to wear boots and cloaks and layers but they did not expect what they are now feeling. The Golden Company is prepared, and the Wildlings are even more prepared. It is cold, unnatural, _frozen_.

The Dornish forces travelled north early to acclimate, but the soldiers from the Reach and the Stormlands are still shaking from the cold. Without the hundreds of fires that were lit, their men would never last. The food supply line from the Reach is sustaining them, and supply lines in the North are carrying more furs and more wood for fires. Parties are going beyond the wall to hack down trees for fire and provisions. The free folk and Northern contingent have finished laying their trap for the Others and they are just waiting now.

Lyarra, Daenerys, and Aegon are staying in the King’s Tower, which Lyarra feels painfully guilty about. “They’re freezing outside,” Lyarra whispers, looking out the window at all the flames and tents, “And we’re warm inside.”

Their men are working with the dragons to dig a hole deep enough for two men to stand atop one another, and have been digging this pit for days. It’s back breaking work, and it’s only possible because dragonfire melts the frozen ground enough for the men to lift heaps of mud instead of dirt and then let it freeze again overnight.

Dany is watching her carefully, and Aegon says nothing, but he slips his hands around her waist. “Come to bed,” he says to them both, “We might die tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday,” Daenerys says candidly.

“And the day before that,” Lyarra says, “Are you trying to seduce us?”

“Is it working?” Aegon replies, looking at both Lyarra and Daenerys who then look at each other.

“Daenerys is better at seduction,” Lyarra says finally, “But you are both so painfully pretty.”

Aegon smiles his tilted smile and leans in to kiss her chastely, “You are even prettier.”

“Dany is the prettiest,” Lyarra supplies when her lips are free, and she leans in to capture Daenerys’ lips. Daenerys, as usual, takes it further, and begins to kiss her neck while Aegon watches them both contently. Somehow, Dany has her furs off in only moments, even with all the layers she wears, and she is pushed gently to the bed where Aegon begins to pull the traditional Northern braids from her hair gently. His hands crawl around her belly, and he rests his hand on their child as he kisses her neck softly.

She likes this, because it’s her turn. When Dany had been with child they had both worshipped her, and now it was Lyarra whose ankles were swollen and who suffered from back aches. It is really quite pleasant, she thinks, the way that Daenerys fondles her nipples. They are darker now than they were when she was a maid, and her breasts are swollen with milk. Lyarra thinks perhaps Daenerys is more fascinated with her breasts than anything else, because sometimes she sleeps upon them and she enjoys holding them in her hands and tweaking her nipples until they are hard.

Aegon is stroking his cock, but he is patient. Lyarra thinks that perhaps having two wives makes him more patient, as sometimes she has no desire to have him within her, and other times she dreams of his cock moving hard and fast. She had confessed this to Daenerys who had agreed to having the same feelings. But now, he is hard and long, and he is _staring_.

He is scrutinizing her so carefully that Lyarra wonders if perhaps there is something on her and she follows his gaze but sees nothing on her belly except for the stretch marks that had come from Rhaegaron and Elyanna.

“She’s beautiful,” Daenerys whispers into Aegon’s ear as she takes over for Aegon, stroking his cock and leaning in to kiss him deeply. It looks right, Lyarra thinks, to see them together. The two people she loves the most love each other just as they love her. They are all meant to be together, and if the gods did not make them to love each other, then how is it that they love each other so truly?

Aegon is slightly tanned, his Rhoynish blood warming his skin against the silver-gold hair of their ancestors, and his pale lavender eyes narrow. Beside him, Daenerys is far paler, with more silver to her blood than gold, eyes a dark violet and hair falling in a long, mussed braid past her bum. Her hair is beautiful, Lyarra thinks, always in awe of the woman before her. She is beautiful, like Aegon is beautiful. They are the same, and different, with beauty so unnatural she wonders if they can truly be human, or if they are the blood of the dragon.

Yet, they believe that _she_ is beautiful. Daenerys is drinking her in in the dim candlelight of the drafty room in Castle Black. The brazier is glowing, heaping with wood, and yet the cold has pebbled Lyarra’s flesh and hardened her brown nipples until they are straining. And she is glowing, radiant, with child. She is warm, round, swollen, and Daenerys thinks that perhaps Lyarra has never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment. She is begging to be touched, and as Daenerys’s tongue finds Lyarra’s womanhood, Aegon shoves his cock into Dany from behind.

She groans when it happens, trying to focus on what is in front of her, something that Dany can tell Lyarra is enjoying by the way her fingers are clutching against her scalp and pulling her closer. Her lips are swollen, red and brown and hot, and Dany’s tongue is warm, and wet, and wild. She can feel herself fluttering, her heartbeat rising, her cunt clenching-

They could all die tomorrow, Lyarra thinks as Aegon pulls her tight hole onto his cock and rests his hands on her hips to guide her against him. “That’s it, sweet sister, ride.” he whispers as he cleans his mess from Dany’s hot cunt.

When he says it this time, says that word – _sister -_ her blood heats, her legs are trembling. The taste of the forbidden is on her tongue. Maybe he is her brother, Lyarra thinks, and maybe they will all die tomorrow because she cannot resist Aegon, cannot resist Daenerys. Maybe she’s condemned them all to rot in the seven hells because she willing spread her legs and bared her hole for her brother; let him put a baby on her, thrice.

Maybe it’s all her fault, but at the moment, she doesn’t care, and even if they survive the Others, she doesn’t think she ever will.

* * *

In the morning, there is a sharp, jarring knock on their door.

“Your Graces?” calls Missandei, “You are needed quite urgently downstairs.”

Aegon sits up the first, and shakes Dany and Lyarra awake. He stumbles from the bed to hurriedly get dressed and Lyarra whimpers with tiredness.

“What is it?” Dany questions, “Have they come?”

“No,” says the translator, “It is a message, we believe for Her Grace Queen Visenya.”

That makes them all pause.

“Uncle Ned?” Lyarra questions.   
“Why send a message?” Aegon replies, “He is due to arrive from Winterfell tomorrow.”

Lyarra throws on her furs and quickly ties her hair back to rush down the stairs as fast as she can with her belly in the way. And she sees too many men. She has learned in her years that wherever many men are clustered, are standing together, there is a problem.

“What is so urgent,” Daenerys demands, “That we were woken before the sun without explanation?”

“There, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah says, pointing towards the men who begin to part for them to see what has Castle Black abuzz.

It is a single sword, a longsword, more slender than any other she has seen with a red gem on the hilt that almost looks as though it is burning. This blade seems to be on fire. Lyarra moves towards it, and without effort at all pulls it from the Ice. The men around her gasp and she looks up at the steel blade, rippling with color and lighter than any blade she had ever held.

“Why are they staring?” Dany demands.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Missandei says, “But this letter was attached.” She places it in Dany’s hand who unrolls it and her eyes move quickly across the page. She looks up seemingly without any emotion at all, “This blade is Dark Sister.”

Aegon takes in a sharp breath, “Two of our blades in such a short time?” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “First Blackfyre, now Dark Sister?” Mayhaps the Targaryens were meant to take back what had been theirs.

Dany hands the note to Lyarra, solemnly and Lyarra is terrified because she does not know what it says and Daenerys infrequently looks so _cold_.

_My dearest Visenya,_

_Our family has produced many a warrior Queen. If you are as powerful as your namesake, then you this blade is yours, and in the ice it will stay unless you are worthy to wield it. Shiera tells me the only way forward, is the way back._

_Bloodraven_

 

Lyarra sucks in a sharp breath, “Bryden Rivers?” she questions, “But I thought he was dead! Beyond the Wall!”

“Come with me,” Dany says sharply, and she leads them back to the King’s Tower where they sit in a silent triangle.

“What do you know?” Aegon asks with steel in his voice, “You know something, or you wouldn’t have brought us where none can hear us.”

“Uncle Aemon is not the only elder Targaryen bastard I have come across.”

Aegon is immediately taken aback, “Who?” he demands, “How-”

“It did not make sense to me at first,” Dany says, “Why Quaithe took such an interest in me. It wasn’t until I begun to look more closely at the dreams she sent-”

“The woman you encountered in Qarth?” Lyarra mentions, “The one you said you dreamed of.”

“I did not dream of her,” Lyarra says, “She came to my dreams. I did not understand at first, why. I do now. She used to tell me to go forward I must go back.”

“Who is Shiera?” Lyarra asks, “Why is Quaithe using another name?”

Aegon sucks in a breath, “You believe Quaithe is Shiera Seastar.”

Dany nods, “Just so. She is the reason I came to you both. I dreamed it, that I must come. So I did.”

“How are they both alive?” Aegon asks, “Bloodraven was son of Aegon IV! He should be dead. _She_ should be dead!”

“Magic,” Lyarra whispers, “You told us that the warlocks of Qarth told you that the dragons brought the strength of magic back. She uses magic. They are both _magic_.”

Dany nods sharply, “And if my Dragons brought magic back-”

“You believe that you triggered the White Walkers,” Aegon surmises, “Because magic came back to the world.”

“No!” cried Lyarra, “This is not your fault! This- they can’t be related. And even if it was the dragons-” she chokes, “No! This could have happened either way. Uncle Benjen says that men have been seeing the Others for far longer than the dragons have been alive.”

Aegon reaches over and takes Dany’s hand, “Do not blame yourself. We are doing all we can. We did not create the walkers. We did not place them here. But we will fix this, I know.”

Lyarra turns to look at the impossibly sharp sword that sits by the door of the room and Aegon knows what she is thinking because he follows her gaze.

“ _No_ ,” he grinds out, “Do not even consider it.”

Dany is wide eyed ad the aggression in Aegon’s voice.

“You cannot-” begins Lyarra.

“I can! You carry my child too! You cannot go into battle. You agreed that you would not. You promised you would leave towards the South if it seemed the battle was not going in our favor!”

“I did not make that promise! I just- I did not disagree when you said it!”

“Aegon, Lyarra-” Dany begins.

“And what if you fall?” Aegon cries angrily, “Our child will die before she takes her first breath!”

The fight is escalating, and Aegon and Lyarra are _shouting_ until Daenerys steps in, “QUIET!” she bellows, “BOTH OF YOU!”

Lyarra’s chest is heaving from yelling, because she’s _so_ incredibly angry. She doesn’t know if she’s ever been this angry, but she knows she’s never been close to this angry at Aegon before this moment.

“You will both stop it, right now!” Dany exclaims heatedly, “Shouting at each other as though we are not all right next to each other, as though our men have not heard your shrieks!” Dany huffs in anger, “Both of you are going to say something you regret.

Aegon paces across their chambers and then finally turns, “This is not something we can compromise over. She either fights, or she does not.”

“ _She_ ,” Lyarra says, “has a name! And is standing right here! I should be able to choose my _own_ fate, Aegon. You are not my father.”

“But I am you brother,” Aegon roars, “And your husband! And you must listen to what I say without dismissing me!”

Dany has a headache now because it doesn’t seem like either of her spouses have listened to a word she has said.

“We entered this marriage, sat on the throne as _equals!_ ” Lyarra hisses, “I have a right to a say in what I do and do not do!”

Aegon is boiling red, and the dragons are screeching outside and Dany is sighing deeply with head in her hands. He throws his hands in the air, “FINE!” be bellows, “THEN WE CAN ALL DIE WHEN THE OTHERS COME!” and he storms the door and slams it on his way out.

It’s silent for a moment until Dany looks up and sees tears tracking down Lyarra’s face. She sniffles quietly from where she has flopped onto her uncomfortable wooden chair.

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” Dany finally asks quietly, “I knew this was going to happen. You are both so stubborn.” She doesn’t want to be harsh with Lyarra, but she doesn’t understand why they both pressed forward, knowing how close they were to hurting each other. She expects it more from Aegon, who is jealous and headstrong even though his temperament is mild. But Lyarra? Docile, and quiet?

Lyarra is crying hard now, shaking her head and rocking in the chair she’s just sat down in.

“Lya?” Dany questions in quiet fear as she stands and rushes towards her, “Lya?” she asks again shaking her to force her to open her eyes and _see_.

“Why am I like this?” Lyarra asks brokenly and Dany wonders if she is asking her aunt or if she is asking herself, “Why did I push him away-why,” she starts choking on her snot, crying and hiccupping, “I am so stupid. I-I kept thinking he would leave me, like everyone else leaves me and I can’t- I don’t know why he stays with me.”

Dany breathes in sharply. She had known that Lyarra had confidence issues, but she had thought it had gotten better. She thought that Lyarra was learning to find her footing, that she had finally become a dragon. But seeing her now, Dany knows she was incorrect in her evaluation that Lyarra has grown to be confident in her decisions.

“I will never leave you,” Dany says, hoping that it will reassure Lyarra enough that she does not fall apart.

“I know,” Lyarra whispers, “I know.” And doesn’t that just kill her inside. She’s not unsure of Dany, knows that Dany will never leave her, knows that though Dany loves Aegon she loves Lyarra more. And maybe now she’s pushed Aegon to love Dany more. _Why am I like this?_ Lyarra asks herself, _Why do I care so much? Why do I need to be the one to be loved? Why can’t I just be happy with what I have?_

Dany pauses and then steps carefully into a question she thinks might set Lyarra off, “Why do you think he will leave you?”

Lyarra snorts and then scoffs quietly, “Why wouldn’t he? No one wanted me except Arya, me the child who killed her own mother. Why should anyone start now?”

“I thought…” Dany begins rearing back in horror at Lyarra’s words, “I thought we talked about this, Lya. You did not kill Lyanna. Her death is not on your hands. And I- we love you, both of us love you and we have told you such many a time.” Dany pauses and then asks a question she may not want the answer to, “Are you trying to push us away?”

“I-I,” Lyarra hiccups because she doesn’t want to answer. She knows she is. Hadn’t she been pushing Aegon away since the moment their eyes met in the market at Lys?

“You won’t be able to, if you are,” Dany says evenly, “We are family. Family never leaves. You need to apologize to Aegon, and he needs to apologize to you.” And doesn’t she know that Lyarra has never learned that lesson? Her parents had died before she could love them. Her uncle had been distant, sparing in his affections. Her stepmother was nothing short of cruel to her growing up. Sansa had abandoned her. And though Robb had been her best friend growing up, hadn’t he left her for the company of Theon, a _boy_?

And Lyarra bursts into tears again because hadn’t Aegon told her that a million times? Hadn’t he told her he loved her, that family never leaves? Hadn’t he made it clear he wanted her? That he would never leave her? No matter what she did?

They sit in silence for a while, and Dany holds Lyarra while she cries, until her breathing is more even, and has servants fetch her water. She’s asleep only a few moments after she drinks from the glass, her head on the pillow, eyes swollen, and face beet red from her tears. Dany lays with her for a while until she finally gets up and follows Rhaegal’s screeching until she finds Aegon outside in the cold.

He looks miserable. _Good,_ Dany thinks, _he played on her biggest insecurity by leaving and he knows it_.

Aegon hears her approaching but doesn’t make any motion to move from where he is angrily shining his armor. “Egg,” Dany says, trying to keep her temper in check. It would not do for her to help fix her marriage and then to cause another argument.  
He doesn’t reply though Dany knows he hears her because he turns to look away.

“Aegon,” she says again, far more firmly, “You will listen to me and you will listen to me well. You will go back into the castle. You will eat crow and apologize for walking out on us like that. You will tell Lyarra you love her, and that she is the best thing that ever happened to you, do you understand?” And she has no regrets saying this to him. Because she does care about Aegon, her nephew, the only man she might allow touch her ever again after the misery of her childhood and first marriage. He hadn’t just left Lyarra, he had left Dany, and Dany does not suffer deserters.

Aegon whirls towards her in righteous fury, “She wouldn’t listen-”

“Oh, stop it!” Dany grinds out angrily, “You were trying to control her and you know she is wild at heart. You have no excuse for your awful behavior, and you know it, and neither does she! You know how sensitive she is! You know she has _literally no_ confidence! You left without saying you were coming back!”

Aegon takes in a deep breath to calm himself, “She knows I would never leave her. I told her I would never do that. She-”

“Does she truly know that for sure?” Dany demands angrily, “Because what you said sounded final to me, and she has not half the confidence of I.”

Aegon looks stricken as though he finally realizes he has made a mistake, “Is she-”

“Perhaps you should find out for yourself,” Daenerys says, “She’s sleeping. Calm yourself and then you will _beg_ for forgiveness. Do you understand me?”

Aegon swallows because he knows he shouldn’t have raised his voice at Lyarra, and he knows he shouldn’t have walked away. Hadn’t the two of them curled together in Lys while she cried about her fears? Hadn’t she made it clear she was afraid that what they had was not forever? It had taken him over a year to prove that she was not just a passing fancy in his life, and now he’s wondering if she ever believed that at all.

“Gods, I am an idiot!” he yells into the frozen trees and runs his hands through his hair.

Dany says nothing but nods because she agrees. She spins on her heel and marches back into the warmth of Castle Black hoping that this battle is not the thing to break them and ruin the precious time they may have together.

It takes three hours for Aegon to return, which Dany thinks was the right decision. He cannot have a temper with Lyarra, who is teetering on the brink and emotional because of her full womb. When he quietly opens the door to their solar, Dany stays in the room. They may need to patch things up between them, but there are not two in this marriage, there are _three_. It’s painfully awkward, and Lyarra is the first to break down and apologize, which Dany isn’t surprised by at all.

“No- I- I shouldn’t have-” Aegon says.

“You should both apologize,” Dany says realizing if she doesn’t guide the two of them that perhaps they will never fully recover from this fight. They need to understand how to make this work, how to make a marriage with three very different people work, “Because you both did wrong. Lyarra, you cannot keep trying to push us away. We are here to stay, and you need to stop testing us by pushing us to leave you. Aegon, you can’t use Lyarra’s insecurities against her and you need to stop stonewalling in arguments. And both of you need to listen, and compromise. There are three of us, and no one asked me what I thought of this matter.”

Lyarra looks ashamed at that, because she had been angry that Aegon wasn’t listening and she had never stopped to think Dany may also have an opinion about what they were discussing, “I agree with you both,” Dany says with finality, “I think Lyarra fighting is a danger, and it is a dangerous risk, but, she has a right to fight for those who she loves, and I am not one to take that away from her. Her bravery is the reason I love her, and I cannot ask her to change. Just as she cannot ask us to change.”

Aegon swallows, “I fucked up,” he says, “I’m sorry,” he looks to Lyarra then to Dany, “To you both. I- We may all die, and we should not waste the time we still have fighting over these things,” he stands and then pulls Lyarra into his arms, “Your bravery is one of the many reasons I love you. Dany is right. I should not ask you to change who you are when you would not ask me to change who I am. I know… I know our blood sometimes makes you uncomfortable, that we are brother and sister and husband and wife, and yet you never threw that back at me in the moments you were unsure if we should be together. It was not fair for me to do it to you.”

“I’m so scared,” Lyarra sobs into his shirt, “Everything is falling apart. I cannot take this again; having someone I love leave me again. You cannot leave me like this again. It hurts to see you walk away. It hurts to see you may never come back again.”

“I won’t leave you,” Aegon says, pulling Dany to him as well so they can all be together the way that he believes the gods want, “Either of you.”

Lyarra sniffles, “I’m sorry I was so- so, rotten. I was mean, and cruel and I shouldn’t’ve-”

“I know,” Aegon says, “I know.” Because he does know. Hadn’t he said the same thing to himself while riding Rhaegal’s back? Hadn’t he said the same things to her as he held her?

“Can we talk about this matter calmly, now?” Dany says.

Lyarra nods, “I want to fight,” she says, “Because I want the chance to protect what I care about. Northern women… we are not like the south. We stand tall, and I do not want to shame my mother by allowing someone else to fight on my behalf.”

“And you feel you cannot do that by riding Visērion?” Aegon questions, trying to understand this time in a way he did not before.

“Is that how you feel?” Daenerys asks, trying to make sure Aegon’s questions do not make Lyarra feel as though she has to answer in one way.

“I… Perhaps?” she wonders, “I want to ride her, because I know she might save many lives by burning the dead. But I want to be able to protect myself if I fall, or if either of you or Arya or Uncle Ned and Uncle Benjen need me.”

Aegon is marveling at her now, because isn’t this the reason he loves her? She is _devoted_ to the Starks, almost to a fault, and now, she is devoted to him, to Dany, to their children. She, who has never truly known her own family is the one who knows the meaning of family the most of all.

“I understand,” Aegon says, “And I will accept that you feel this way, even though I do not like it.”

Dany nods, “I would not ask you to change your way, only that you are careful, and that perhaps, you do not face an enemy in combat unless you must.”

Lyarra nods and they huddle together again. _Things are alright again_ , Lyarra thinks as her tears dry and she falls fast asleep with Aegon holding her belly and Dany holding her hand, _and I need to love myself more._

* * *

Their armies have been preparing for battle at Castle Black for almost two turns when they hear the horn come from the top of the wall.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

Everything is ready except for the men who must fight. Lyarra is sitting upon Visērion’s back, Dark Sister at her hip, and she is waiting as their men scramble to their places. One hundred and fifty thousand men are in front of the wall and another hundred are behind it, ready to attack if their plan goes array.

“Take it,” Aegon pleads, “Please,” as he wraps the dragonglass dagger to her arm, and then does the same to Daenerys, “I know you will not come face to face with the enemy, but if you do-”

“I won’t,” Lyarra says, “I promised I wouldn’t.”

Dany doesn’t look like she believes Lyarra very much but kisses Aegon in thanks for the dagger.

“We cannot allow them to cross!” yells Benjen to the host of armed men, “If even one gets away, we are all lost! Do you understand?”

Their men are spread into columns, ready in all but fear for the battle. The free folk with arrows are standing on a wooden structure built high enough to be out of the reach of the dead but low enough to still aim and fire into the mass of corpses that are knocking on their door. They are coming, and Lyarra can feel the air become colder. It is bitingly cold, unnaturally cold, inhumanly cold. She, who is born of the ice is frozen, even as she sits upon Visērion’s warm back.

The men look terrified.

“Say something to them,” urges Ned, “Men need encouragement to go to war.”

Aegon looks to Daenerys who he knows is famed for readying an army but Dany just looks to Lyarra.

“What, you want me to do it?” Lyarra asks taken aback, “Shouldn’t it be Daenerys? Most of these men are _her_ men.”

“My men are not afraid,” Dany says arrogantly and Lyarra inwardly rolls her eyes, “It’s the Westerosi forces that look afraid to me.”

Aegon nods encouragingly because he wants their people to respect their Queens the way that they respect their King, “Say something.”

So Lyarra does. She flies to the ground and lands near the men, hoping that she will say the right thing that will stop them from running the moment that the Others appear. She takes a deep breath, “We cannot hope to be saved. We must save ourselves. If we should all die today then we can die knowing that we will have done our best and that we have protected those we loved. Aye we may all die,” Lyarra admits, knowing that there is no reason to lie now, “We may be forced back to live a half-life by these beasts. But we answered the call and we fought for our brethren and that is all we can hope to do.”

Lyarra pauses and then continues, “Perhaps they will write songs of this moment, of this battle. Perhaps there will be no one left to write songs. All I know here today in this uncertainty is that I am proud to lead us unto battle with my lord husband and our lady wife. I am proud of you all because you will fight with honor, and for those who cannot fight themselves. Aye we may ride towards death, but we also ride for life, and that means we cannot lose today.”

The men cheer, and they don’t look as afraid, but Lyarra knows that though this is a moment of great courage, these men are still afraid, and they should be. They can hear the footsteps of the dead in the distance, and the ground is quaking under their horde. The moment is here. They are coming. The waiting is the worst part, because though they can feel the wights marching slowly, can hear them from afar, they cannot yet see the monster they are meant to fight. Once they see the wights, they will be real.

When they do see them, they wish they had not. They are piles of rotting flesh, staggering in hordes, bringing ice and death. And the Others sit with beauty that is unparalleled upon bleeding horses their hair as fine as spun silk, eyes as blue as a frozen lake.

Upon seeing live flesh, the wights rush towards the wall and it is time for them to put the first step of their plan into action.

 “Release!” she hears Benjen’s voice carry across the wind and then sees that their arrows have aimed true. The trees that they had cut and lined with moss are aflame. There is no way for the Others or the Wights to escape now. They are stuck in a ring of fire and the only way out is to cross the Wall that the men dead ahead are defending. The fire may not burn forever, but it will keep the dead in one place, where the archers can try to pick them off one by one. The dead rush towards them, across the thin snow, seeing their living flesh and-

“NOW!” bellows Ned, and the men give a great heave to pull free the supporting beams from the pit that they had dug. It had taken them hours to build the deep pit and then cover it with long boards over a pair of thick beams as a false floor. At least three thousand of the wights are now trapped in the pit, clambering over each other to crawl out. They do climb, and this pit would do nothing to truly slow them if not for the animal fat smeared across the pit. The Others look unimpressed by their plan until six freed women let loose flaming arrows straight for the fat and they are all alight.

The dead in the pit are burning to ash, and other wights are falling to cross the pit but there are too many and the pit is near useless now, for it cannot hold the entire host of the dead. They are coming closer and closer when Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied who had elected to travel with their company rather than lead the Unsullied to protect King’s Landing shouts, “Fire!”

The sound of the fire tubes that are hidden around the area they’ve enclosed the Others in is deafening. They crack loud and angry and the Others screech in surprise as they are shattered with small, sharp pellets of Obsidian no larger than the indigo diamonds Aegon had presented to Lyarra and Daenerys at their wedding. When they shatter, thousands of wights fall to the ground, completely inanimate.

Everyone watching realizes that destroying Others destroys the wights, and Tormund Giantsbane quickly commands the archers to aim for the Others, and not the wights, which they are able to do in the confusion of the fire tubes. The Others look unsure now, not afraid, certainly, but as though they are considering if they must retreat, and Lyarra can see that some of them are moving backwards to avoid the second explosion of the fire tubes. Another spray of obsidian wipes out a dozen Others and several hundred wights.

In the confusion and hoping to burn more enemies trying to retreat, Aegon, Lyarra and Daenerys finally take off and are sending dragonfire at the outskirts of the dead, forcing them closer to the pit that it still burning, and closer to their own forces. The smoke from the fire tubes are covering the dragons and the riders enough that Lyarra has managed to burn an entire column of wights without being seen, and across the smoke Daenerys has unleashed Drogon’s fury on a cluster of unsuspecting Others.

The Others are sending arrows of ice at the dragons, knowing that the fire is stopping them from engaging in a fair battle. One pierces Visērion’s wing, but she barely notices the pain. These Others, these creatures, they will not accept the odds they have been given.

The Westerosi men have let loose the fire tubes a dozen times, and the Others are floundering under the fire and blood that the Targaryen forces are unleashing. Daenerys is behind the enemy unleashing dragonfire to keep them from retreating to the land of always winter. But the enemy is recovering, and they are ready to replenish their forces by killing their men and reviving them. The wights are finally cross the pit, the fire spent and it is time to fight the dead hand to hand.

The Dothraki charge first on horseback, supported by the arrows of the Free Folk. Behind them, the Golden Company have finally come out of the tunnel that placed them behind the enemy forces and within the ring of fire. They have surrounded the dead and the Others. And they are in battle. It is gruesome, Lyarra can see from above. Her men are dying, and the Others are spraying the free folk with arrows. She watches a woman fall to the ground and be ripped apart and she has to look away because she cannot _see_ this anymore.

Lyarra pulls out her bow and arrow and sends several dragonglass arrows at a few unsuspecting Others now that she cannot unleash Visērion’s fire in fear of hurting her own men. It is then that she gains the attention of the Night King. He sends an ice spear through the sky and it narrowly misses Visērion. She screeches in her displeasure, angry that this thing has tried to hurt her truest friend and companion.

Lyarra curses herself for being seen so easily though, having lost the cover of the smoke. She may be wearing armor, but it is not enough to protect her from the weapons of the Others. She wears only mail and custom breast plate that Aegon had insisted be made to protect their child, “ADERE, VISĒRION!” she screams over the winds and the child kicks hard, as if forcing the dragon to fly faster. But it is no use, because Visērion does not swerve fast enough and the great spear of ice goes straight through her tail. Visērion screeches in her pain and she veers to the left, straight into the battle field and lets out an agonized pillar of fire as she crash lands abruptly to the snowy ground. Lyarra braces herself for the landing, but falls anyway, straight onto her back. Visērion gives a long sorrowful moan, as if to apologize for dropping her rider.

The wights are closing in on her and Visērion but she’s fallen too far away to get back to Visērion in time for her friend to fly away. Her life means less than Visērion, who could kill thousands for each wight she could take down herself. Visērion may save her children, may bring them back home so they may at least see their mother and father if not her. Her dragon must survive, must continue to fly and burn their enemies so she shouts to Visērion, “Sōvegon!” and with pained but obedient and dutiful eyes, Visērion takes off, flying back towards Castle Black to nurse her wounds.

Now she is stranded here surrounded by wights with only a sword and her own wits, but the wights are not moving. They are not moving at all, and Lyarra holds Dark Sister tighter, because she sees a crown of ice moving towards her. She forces herself to stand tall, to be unafraid. She is a _Queen_ , and she will not allow her men to fight her battles for her. Around her, she can see some of their forces fighting towards her, hoping perhaps to save her from the death she is looking straight in the eyes.

The Night King is ready for her, and he has his blade of ice polished and gleaming. She cannot be afraid, she cannot back down. She must fight and win. His eyes are bright blue, as light as the dawn but he is not looking at her face, but at her belly covered in mail and steel. And Lyarra remembers the tale that uncle Benjen had told her about the sons born to old man Craster above the Wall. If her child is to survive to be a dragon as it is meant to, then she must destroy the Night King, and destroy the Others.

He swings his blade without warning, and Lyarra barely has time to put her sword up to defend herself. The sound of the blades clashing is grating to the ears, with a high pitch ring, and so loud it takes everything in her not to shut her eyes and flitch. And he is strong. He’s pushing her back as their swords meet again and again. She’s blocking every move he makes, but the Night King has blunt force that she does not have, has never had, and unlike Arya, Lyarra had never learned to use her opponent’s weight against them.

She raises her blade again to protect herself, but she’s becoming tired, her arms and her legs sore and fatigued. Valyrian steel is light, and strong, but she is tired, and hungry, and cold, and she cannot hold against the Night King who has lived many more lives than she forever. Suddenly, she hears a frantic scream and she looks away for only a moment to see Daenerys off Drogon’s back and racing towards her.

That moment is all he needs to best her. It’s as though the wind is knocked out of her, as though she’s never taken a full breath and never will. And the pain is excruciating, as though she is burning in the pits of hell while freezing in the skies. The Night King grins as he shoves the ice blade deeper into her chest. She gasps, trying to breath as the air is pushed from her lungs. He begins to lift his blade, and her from where it has pierced through her chest and she is falling harder and harder onto the sharp ice. She can see her blood falling into the snow, even as the world is darkening. He reaches his hand towards her, wrapping his fingers around her throat and Lyarra drops Dark Sister because _she can’t breathe_.

But his eyes are not on her, but on her belly.

My daughter, Lyarra thinks, _who will never see the world because I did not protect her as I should have_. It’s enough in that moment, and she shakes her arm and the dragonglass dagger is in her left hand and Lyarra couldn’t even say what happens next even though she sees it all with her own two eyes.

It’s almost as though she is watching someone else’s body, someone else’s hands shove the dagger into the Night King’s eye. She doesn't even register Dany’s screams as she picks up Dark Sister and plows it into the Night King’s back.

And she doesn’t feel anything. There’s no pain as the Other explodes and she drops to the ground in a heap. The weapon is gone, and Lyarra can see the blood spilling from her chest. It doesn’t hurt, she thinks, _why doesn’t it hurt?_

_I’m dying_ she realizes as she blinks and exhales. She sees Arya fall across the battlefield, and looking further closer she sees the body of Jaime Lannister bleeding into the snow. Her men are on the ground in pieces, and Visērion is screeching. All around her, everyone is dying.

And Dany is above her, shouting but she can’t hear anything she is saying, can only see the tears in her eyes, the frantic hands on her bleeding chest.

_I’m dying._

She breaths and then she feels nothing but the cold.

* * *

Maybe she is dead, but she isn’t sure. It’s not cold anymore, and everything just feels soft, smooth, as though it’s floating in a haze. Everything seems right, and nothing hurts. Maybe she’s survived. Maybe she will see her children again.

“My love? You must open your eyes,” she hears. It’s a soft voice, with an accent that is so familiar. Doesn’t Robb sound like this? And Uncle Ned? Doesn’t she? The voice is gritty, but the pitch is so lovely. She opens her eyes because she wants to know who is peaking to her, wants to know who has nursed her back to health.

She recognizes the face. It’s so similar to her own, long, accompanied by sharp cheekbones and raven hair. She knows this face because she has seen it many times before. She has these features, all but the pale grey eyes.

“Mother?” she whispers.

She smiles, “Aye. I am here with you; for you. Rhaegar and Elia are too.”

The moment she says it Lyarra turns around and realizes that Rhaegar and Elia _are_ there, just behind her. Elia is a beauty with honeyed skin, deep red-brown hair and dark, expressive eyes. She wears a ring in her nose and her head is covered by a silken scarf. She is every bit the Dornish princess that Aegon has described her as.

Rhaegar is there too, and Lyarra takes a sharp breath because she has _his_ eyes, a deep amethyst, rather than Aegon’s pale lavender. His hair is the same shade as Daenerys’, that pale white-blonde without the warm gold that it seems Aegon had inherited from Elia.

“Mother Elia?” Lyarra whispers, “Father?” It feels foreign on her tongue and she knows why. She accepted Lyanna was her mother, accepted that she had married Elia and Rhaegar. But this is the first time they are real to her. All she knows of the Dornish Princess and the Dragon Prince has come from Aegon, Ser Arthur, and Ashara Dayne. Now they are real; right next to her.

“Visenya,” Rhaegar says, “Sweet daughter. You have fought so valiantly.”

Lyanna moves next to Elia and puts her hand to Lyarra’s cheek, “A true Northern Princess.”

“With the same courage and honor as your mother,” Elia continues, “You are her living image.”

“Am I dead?” Lyarra blurts and then gasps in surprise when Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Elia laugh heartily.

At her shocked expression Lyanna pauses, “No you are not dead yet, my love.”

“Oh,” is Lyarra’s intelligent response.

“You are almost there, though,” Rhaegar replies and Lyarra looks at her father as though he has grown another head. Is this supposed to comfort her?

Elia gives him a furious look and then pinches him hard, “You have made her unnecessarily scared, Rhae,” she reprimands.

“Dany is like that too,” Lyarra breaths with a look in her eye, “She is perhaps too honest, sometimes.”

Lyanna sighs, “Your father is too much a dragon, and I too much a wolf. You are the perfect in between.”

“That is where we are,” Elia directs with a grim smile, “In between. We were somewhere else, but now we are here.”

“For you,” Rhaegar supplies, “We are here for you.”

“Because you have a choice,” Lyanna informs her, “A choice that many never have the option to make.”

A pit forms in Lyarra’s stomach. She’s a bundle of nerves, as though Dany has told her there is a surprise for her, but she must wait to see it. But it isn’t a good surprise. She just feels numb.

“A choice?” she questions, wringing her hands nervously because what choice could she possibly make when she hangs by a thread.

“Aye, a choice,” Lyanna says, “About whether to move on with us, and the rest of our family. Rhaella and Rhaenys are waiting, and so are Brandon, and my father. The first Visenya wishes to meet you, and Rhaego is with us too. Or… if you cannot move on just yet, you can stay.”

“Here? In between?” Lyarra asks, _alone_ she adds in her head, _again_.

“You are as numb skulled as your father,” Elia says rolling her eyes, “No. To go back. To Aegon and Daenerys.”

“Go… back?” Lyarra stammers.

Lyanna cuts in, “You did a great deed, Visenya. You defeated the Night King, you and Daenerys, just as you were meant to. But you are here because where Dany lived you are almost dead. As we speak they are trying to fix you, but you are getting no better.”

Lyarra suddenly panics, “My baby-”

“Will go where ever you go,” Elia says, “She will also live, or she will also die.”

Lyarra’s heart sinks. How could she ever give up a chance for her child to see the beautiful world around her? “But-”

“You must decide,” Rhaegar says sternly, and his voice and his everything reminds her so much of Aegon that it hurts her heart inside.

“Mother I- There is so much I wish to say-” Lyarra cries, _but I cannot be without Aegon and Dany_ is left unsaid but all present know. It is there, sitting between them all.

“Hush,” Lyanna says as she wraps her arms around Lyarra, “This is not your fault. None of it. Let us tell you a story, and at the end you may decide whether you will join us or return to your lovers,” Lyanna wipes Lyarra’s tears and Lyarra wants to die in that moment. _Is this what it is like to have a mother? Does she wipe your tears? Hug you when you cry?_

“Your father and I met at the tourney of Harrenhall. Howland Reed, one of my father’s bannermen was attacked by a group of squires. I wanted to punish them for what they had done, insulting Howland, a good man, and the North. And so, I stole several pieces of armor from around the camp and painted a weirwood tree on my shield and my chest with Benjen’s help. I called myself the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

Lyarra sucks in a breath, because hasn’t she heard this story before? Hadn’t Uncle Ned-

“I won the joust, and demanded that the Knights discipline their squires, but I could not reveal myself and ran away before I could get my prize. But your grandfather, King Aerys believed me an assassin and sent Rhaegar to find me. He did catch me,” Lyanna said with a soft chuckle, “Half dressed, mind you, and stinking of horse and manure. I told him what happened, and he let me go. He took my shield and claimed that I had disappeared and that I was nowhere to be found.”

“Then I won the tourney,” Rhaegar continues, “And the night before I had told Elia all about the brave woman who had bested the other Knights and demanded that they punish their squires.”

“I thought it was delightful,” Elia says as she takes Lyanna’s hand into her own and it’s the same way she has taken Dany’s hand so many times, “and I told her to crown Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty rather than me, to honor her for her bravery and loyalty. And also,” Elia giggles so softly that it brings tears to Lyarra’s eyes, “Because we both thought she was a handsome woman.”

“I left the tourney dreading marrying Robert,” Lyanna said grimly, “He fathered a bastard on a tavern wench at the tourney, you know, and I just- I could not marry him. It is selfish, I know. But Rhaegar made me happy in only the brief time I had met him, and I had begged and pleaded with my father not to marry Robert. But your grandfather, the king, found out about the tourney, found out that I had been the Knight of the Laughing Tree. And he sent men to capture me, so he might take my head.”

“I left King’s Landing and rode faster than the men he sent to get your mother and bring her to safety under Elia’s suggestion. We only had time to leave a note from Lyanna saying that we were going to safety. Elia and I both believed the prophecy by then, and we knew that there needed to be a third child, and I believed that a child by Lyanna could be the union of ice and fire.”

“I liked him very much, when he arrived, Visenya,” Lyanna said, running her hands through Lyarra’s hair, “But by the time we made it to the Riverlands, I was in love. I did not want to break he and Elia apart though, when she had done so much for me. That’s when Rhaegar suggested that we all three marry, the way the conqueror married his two sisters.”

“I rode to the Isle of Faces with Rhaenys and Aegon,” Elia says, “And we said our vows there to honor your mother’s gods. We had to return to King’s Landing, though, because Brandon and Rickard had died gruesome deaths and the rebellion was in full swing.”

Lyarra sucks in and then demands, “Why did you not tell anyone that father did not take you against your will? Thousands died! And for what!”

Rhaegar levels her with a look. It’s the same look Ned gave to her when she misbehaved as a child. It’s the look that a father gives his daughter. It’s the same look that Aegon gives to Elyanna and Rhaella, “Your tone, Visenya.”

Lyarra quietly apologizes, feeling properly chastised.

“We did,” Lyanna finally says, “I left the note to my father in his room. He told us when we got here that he never saw it. We tried to send ravens when we reached Dorne but none of them ever arrived. Rhaegar, Elia, and I were focused on the prophecy, and creating you,” Lyarra blushes, “And after we left the Isle of Faces, Aerys demanded Elia and the children as hostages against Rhaegar.”

“Is that when you switched out Aegon?” Lyarra asks.

Elia gives a pained smile, “Yes. I sent Aegon with Lyanna and Rhaegar because a Lyseni whore had given birth in a brothel and the boy looked enough like Aegon that it was possible to swap them. I could not get away with sending Rhaenys away as she was old enough to be recognized, so I held her close. I died soon after that.” Elia says it in a way that freezes Lyarra’s heart, as though it happened to someone else. As though The Mountain Who Rides had not raped her and killed her daughter in front of her. As though she had not died choking on her own blood.

“And then Rhaegar was slain at the Trident and I knew that they would come looking for Aegon next, since he was now the Crown Prince,” Lyanna continues, “So I sent your brother with the lady’s maid that Elia had provided me, Ashara Dayne to smuggle him to Essos. Then I had you,” Lyanna says with a sniffle, “My beautiful, bright baby girl who I only held in my arms but once and only for a moment. And I made Ned promise to take care of you,” she pauses, “And he did.”

Rhaegar finally speaks again, “But what you must know, Visenya, is that we made a mistake doing what we did.”

Lyarra frowns.

“Not in having you,” Elia says, “Or any of our children. We should have been honest about our marriage. And we should not have hid away afraid that Aerys would come after us. That is our mistake. We all three loved one another, and it caused ruin because we were careless.”

Rhaegar looks terribly sad, “I only wish that you had all grown up together, that I had protected Elia and Rhaenys, that your mother had not died having you. I-” he gives a great shudder and to Lyarra’s widened eyes, it seems her father is about to cry, “When Ned comes, I will thank him for protecting you from Robert. But we made our mistakes, and we know we did. And we asked too much of him, just as too much was asked of us, and of you.”

Lyarra is in stunned silence. She had known all three were in love, but – “I am not sure what I should say,” Lyarra finally says, “It seems more real now that you said it. It’s not a story anymore.”

Lyanna kisses her forehead, “So now you must decide, Visenya, my sweet daughter. You may move on with us, or you may go back.”

“If I go back-” Lyarra begins.

“It will be agony,” Elia says, “You will hurt. And there will be sadness in your life. But you will be happy. You will hold your children as none of us were able to. You can be together with the two people you love when we could not. Perhaps, you can be what we could not.”

Lyarra nods and then takes a deep breath, decision made, “Aye. I am ready. I made my decision. Can… I hug you all once more?”

Within a blink she is being hugged tightly by all three of her parents and she isn’t sure if she has ever felt this loved before, by the people who gave their lives for she and Aegon to live.

“Can you tell Aegon that we love him?” Elia asks urgently, “That we are proud of him and that Rhaenys loves him and is so very happy to see him grow?”

“And tell Daenerys that she is just like her brother,” Lyanna says, “and that Rhaella believes she is a true Queen; a true dragon.”

Lyarra nods and she is peppered with soft kisses on her face.

“Now go, my love,” Lyanna says her voice becoming more hollow, “It is time for you to leave this place.”

“And we will not see each other again until the time is right,” Rhaegar assures, voice distorted, as though he is deep under water, “Until you have lived your life.”

Elia smiles and calls, “Live, Visenya. Live.”

And everything goes white, as though she is surrounded by the light of the sun, and everything is so hot it’s burning, and there is pain – excruciating. She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’tdoanythingbutscream-

* * *

“But what happened next, granduncle?” demands little Rhaenyra Targaryen, “What happened to Visenya?”

Her elderly granduncle laughs, still amused by the energy of the children huddled at his feet, “They won the Battle for the Dawn,” he says, “And defeated the Night King and stopped the Long Night from ever occurring at all.”

“We know that already, grandpapa,” Jaehaerys complains, “Or else we wouldn’t be here!”

“Patience, children! If you will be good rulers you must have patience,” the wrinkled man says, “Visenya was healed at Winterfell, along with Princess Arya. And of course, you know that Lord Eddard Stark and the Kingslayer were slain in the battle, along with many of the Targaryen forces. That’s when your many great-grandmother, Queen Daenys was born.”

“For Daenys the Dreamer who brought us to Dragonstone and saved us from the Doom, right granduncle?” asks Rhaenyra knowing her history from her lessons with her uncle, Maester Daeron, “Mama named my little sister Daenys for her too,” she adds proudly.

“That’s exactly right,” says the elderly prince Aemon of Summerhall, “And then they returned to King’s Landing and Prince Rhaegaron the Second Dragon Knight, Princess Elyanna, Princess Rhaella, and King Aegon returned.”

Rhaenyra nods sagely, knowing that although Prince Rhaegaron and Princess Elyanna had been Crown Prince and Princess, Rhaegaron had wanted to be a knight, and Elyanna had wanted him more than she wanted a Crown, and they had passed it on to Aegon VII and his younger sister and Queen, Daenys of the Dawn.

Jaehaerya falls backwards onto her grandfather’s knees, “Grandpapa, uncle Daeron told me that it’s just a story, and that Visenya and Daenerys didn’t defeat anyone but the wildlings above the wall.”

“That’s stupid,” Aegon complains, “Maester Samwell wrote the whole thing down! People used to think dragons weren’t real,” he says sharply, “But we all ride them, and they brought magic back to the world.”

“Maesters can lie,” Jaehaerya grumbles as though annoyed that Aegon is calling her false, and Jaehaerys looks offended on behalf of his twin, “I just said that’s what uncle Daeron told me.”

Grandpa Aemon interjects, “That set of chronicles was in fact written with the help of my own namesake, Maester Aemon, and with the support of the Crown and those who fought in the battle.”

Rhaenyra sighed to Aegon’s disgust, “It’s so _romantic_!” she clasps her hands together dreamily, “Daenerys saved Visenya and they even had a baby,” she sits up carefully and then demands, “Granduncle, will _I_ ever get a husband and a wife?”

“I cannot tell the future, my child.”

Rhaenyra looks at him speculatively before choosing her words earnestly, “If I can choose, may I marry Jaehaerya and Jaehaerys? Jaehaerya is my _bestest_ friend but she wouldn’t be happy without Jaehaerys and Aegon is too spoiled, so I can’t marry him.”

“HEY!” Aegon gasps in offense, grey eyes spotted with annoyance at his older sister. She might have been older than him, but sometimes she was so mean!

Jaehaerys and Jaehaerya turn their twin silver blonde hair and lavender eyes to their grandfather and lean forward in perfect synchrony, “Can we, grandpapa?”

“Is that what you want?” the elderly Prince asks, thinking of what his nephew, Rhaenyra’s father, and King Aegon XII might say to his eldest daughter and heir to the throne marrying her twin cousins, “ _You_ are the Crown Princess, Rhaenyra, and it is your duty to serve your people.”

Truthfully, Prince Aemon thinks that King Aegon would support the match, as the greatest leaders of the Seven Kingdoms have long been made by matching three Targaryens of three very different temperaments. Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys were the ones to make the throne on which little Rhaenyra will one day sit. And Aegon the Fair, Daenerys the Mother of Dragons, and Visenya, the Heroine of the Dawn were perhaps even more loved than their ancestor Jaehaerys I and his sister-wife, Alysanne.

“We can still be happy though,” Jaehaerys exclaims, “That’s what aunt Rhaenys says. We’re allowed because a happy king is a good king.”

“A happy king _is_ a good king,” grandfather says, “And Rhaenyra will be a good queen if she has you both by her side.”

Rhaenyra puffs her chest proudly, dark hair and violet eyes shining, “I will be an excellent queen!”

“You will,” her granduncle says, “You most certainly will.”

The children all leave in a whirlwind to play outside and elderly Prince Aemon Targaryen closes a withered book, leather bound, and thicker than any could expect, _A Song of Ice and Fire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's over! Omg! I can't believe that I just produced a story that clocks in at about 50,000 words in 12 days. I'm shooooook. Please leave comments! I would love to discuss anything you guys are interested in below, but please keep it respectful with me and with each other! Thank you so much for reading! xx


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